


Fractus Animus

by VacantVulture



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Female!Byleth, Multiple Personalities, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VacantVulture/pseuds/VacantVulture
Summary: “You told me once that to know you is to know of your blade.” Byleth readied her stance and lifted her sword. “Show me who you are, then.” Jeritza comprehended little of others’ emotions, but he understood the significance of this moment perfectly. She wanted to know if she was still his equal – she wanted unyielding assurance that he didn’t own her, didn’t pity her... She needed him to prove that he remained incapable either of staying his hand or dominating her, and they both knew the battlefield as a place of ruthless, uncompromising truth."There are dark moments, so please review the tags. I would hate want to upset anyone!Profuse thanks to bearsquares for being an excellent beta!
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! All comments, critical or otherwise, are greatly appreciated. I am always looking to improve, and every comment helps motivate me to continue writing. Thank you! <3

1185

Jeritza saw Byleth collapse after defeating the Immaculate One. He thought it had killed her, had suspected it would all along. Only when he thought he was witnessing her final demise and had experienced the resulting sense of loss did he realize that the Death Knight was not the only one who sought an equal. Jeritza had nearly collapsed himself as the full weight of his love brought him to his knees.

When she came back to life, he had watched from afar and felt as though his shattered heart had lifted, begun to beat again just as Byleth’s had. He felt joy and dread rush through his body in equal measure, for he loved Byleth, it meant that he must leave Garreg Mach. He would not risk coming back to himself and finding his own hands covered in the blood of someone he loved. 

Now, it was nearly dawn, and he had crept up to the Goddess Tower, intent upon gazing over the grounds one final time as the purifying rays of sun appeared on the horizon. In many ways, Garreg Mach had been the closest thing to home he’d ever had, and he was not anxious to abandon it.

“I thought I might find you here.”

His body seemed to melt and freeze at the same time. Why must he constantly be tempted to embrace those he would as soon kill? Keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon, he merely grunted his acknowledgement.

A small hand rested on his upper arm. His resolve broke, and he turned his gaze onto Byleth’s face. He may as well take the opportunity to memorize every detail before he left. The pert nose, the wide blue eyes, the cobalt blue of her hair and the way it framed her face-

“I just came from visiting my father’s grave.” Her tone was oddly formal, and it was rare for her to voluntarily start a conversation, even with him. “He gave me something a few days before he died – my mother’s ring, actually. I think he had a feeling we were going to part ways soon.” She fiddled absently with something in her pocket. “He told me to find someone I loved the way he loved my mother, someone who deserved this ring as much as she did.”

With dawning trepidation, he saw her remove her hand from her pocket. She seemed shy, keeping the tiny object covered as she grabbed his large hand and wrapped it around the small piece of metal. Jeritza opened his palm, heart hammering, and gazed at the ring.

He tried to speak and found he couldn’t. He wished that he had not indulged in the final goodbye to the grounds. He wished he didn’t know Byleth had this ring. He wished he hadn’t seen what her face looked like when it was suffused with love and vulnerability and hope. Yet, Goddess help him, he allowed the moment to extend. To give him time to imagine a different outcome, one in which he swept her up in his arms and kissed her and watched the sunrise with her, their new lives filled with nothing but hope and the promise of adventure… But that was not who he was.

“Jeritza?” Her eyes searched his face anxiously.

He avoided looking at her as he held out his open palm and shook his head, a silent gesture for her to take back the ring. But her fingers closed his hand over the ring once more.

“Keep it. Mercedes told me you might leave us soon. It comforts me to know you’ll have something to remember me by.” Her eyes remained dry. Her stoicism was one of the things he liked most about her. He tried to marshal his thoughts into order, tried to make his coward’s tongue find words to explain or at least comfort. He looked up, still preparing his inadequate response, but she was already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

1186: Guardian Moon

Nuvelle Province

Lord Hurwolf was a king. Sure, that wasn’t his title, but in the province of Nuvelle, everyone, from commoner to nobleman, knew his name. And while they didn’t explicitly address him as king, their regard was implicit by the fearful manner in which they addressed him.

He knew he deserved this unquestioning respect—he had a crest, he was rich, he was feared—he was entitled to it. Right this very minute, he was seated as the head of a long table of all of his knights, all of the fellow noblemen who were subservient to him. They paid unofficial taxes to him, ostensibly for extra forces in their respective territories. In reality, they were paying Lord Hurwolf not to send his bandits to rape their women and pillage their town, but they need not know that small detail.

He dreamed of taking over Fodlan, much like Lady Edelgard had. He hardened slightly at the thought of the beautiful, dignified Emperor being laid low by his hand. For now, though, he had these knights and noblemen, all tripping over themselves to obey his every whim. And, sitting on the floor next to his throne, her head bowed, he had this pathetic slave who only existed for him. She, who was once the most powerful warrior of Fodlan. She, whose body the very Goddess had deemed worthy enough to inhabit. She, who had stood by Lady Edelgard and single-handedly turned the tides, the determining force in making the Emperor victorious over both Leicester and Faerghus. Now, she was his bitch, his slave, a piece of pretty meat for him to poke his dick into whenever he pleased. Was that not evidence enough of his unbridled power?

The only thing he needed to begin his assault on the Empire was money, and lots of it. Indeed, this was the topic of the meeting currently underway. Lord Hurwolf knew that he could have the forces of what was formerly Faerghus and Leicester, and perhaps even Albinea and Morfis. Most importantly, though, was the monetary and military influence of the powerful Almyra. With their forces, he could easily conquer that blonde bitch and her pouty little sidekick. Wasn’t he already one third of the way there, with this enslaved cunt at his knee who already had forgotten her own name?

He had watered down this plan to his knights and nobleman, made it sound like a righteous cause, fabricated proof that the assaults on the little villages and hamlets of Nuvelle were a direct result of the premeditated efforts of Lady Edelgard. The faces in front of him were obligingly appalled, ready to lay down their lives in his name, and Lord Hurwolf could tell that his efforts were already working. It was so easy – more proof that he was indeed a king, and would soon become so officially.

Gerrud, his main advisor, asked to be heard, and Lord Hurwolf nodded his acquiescence. The slight man stood up and intoned in his dull, pedantic voice, “My Lord Hurwolf has made clear the unrestrained evil force that is Emperor Edelgard” – the men at the table all nodded solemnly, looking disturbed – “and I’m sure we all agree that we need Hurwolf’s protection, and that she needs to be vanquished for the safety of our land. The only thing we need, gentlemen, is more military force. We cannot hope to conquer the enemy without the powerful force of the Almyran army.” Men frowned as they considered this.

Gerrud continued, “My Lord Hurwolf, with respect, I believe the Almyran king is sympathetic to our plight, but I’m not sure he is ready to risk his army only for the sake of furthering our interests. He has given his price, but we simply do not have enough gold in our coffers to secure the force of his army.”

Lord Hurwolf’s face darkened ominously. “That is the goddamn point of this meeting, Gerrud. You’re stating the obvious. You’re here to solve problems, not to damage morale by describing to us what we already know!”

“Agreed, sir. I am sorry to have caused offense.” Gerrud sounded frightened, but plowed on quickly. “I am just wondering how we can obtain this money. All the gold in the Nuvelle province cannot meet this price the Almyran king has imposed.”

A knight, known for his prowess in battle but not his tact, interrupted. “If we can’t pay him gold, we just need to find a resource he doesn’t have.” The knight paused. “I’ve heard from other knights that he enjoys female slaves to… see to his needs.” Another pause. “Perhaps he could be persuaded by having a slave unlike any other that he has ever used.” The slave at Hurwolf’s feet cowered as all eyes turned reflexively to her naked, starved body.

Lord Hurwolf remained silent as he thought of the year of training the slave, and how every idiot he met was satisfactorily subdued merely by seeing her presence, chained and naked on the floor next to him. She was a symbol of his power, the sovereignty of his claim on Fodlan. She was the crowning jewel of his province, but this war would take significant sacrifices, he knew. After all, once Edelgard’s Fodlan was defeated and her military forces grafted into his empire, what was to stop him from taking Almyra, too? He could take back his slave then, he thought with an inner shrug.

“Very well. Let’s give the Almyran King a gift, shall we? Gerrud, let the slave traders know to transport her as soon as possible.”


	3. Chapter 3

1186: Guardian Moon

Garreg Mach Monastery

Hubert’s eyes shifted back and forth under his mage’s mask as he prowled through the Underground. Edelgard and he had agreed that the Black Market was nothing harmful, per se. After all, few people understood more than Hubert did that dark magic was merely a powerful weapon. What mattered, he reflected, was how the mage used that power. His dark magic had been every bit as successful at vanquishing the so-called Immaculate One as Linhardt and Manuela’s “light” magic had been combined.

He permitted himself a smirk as he relished the feeling of going into battle with such a motley group. People like the Professor, Ferdinand, Linhardt, Bernadetta, the Death Knight, all as different from one another as they were united in risking their lives to provide a better life for Fodlan. Aside from the epic tales of war they now also shared, it made for some very diverting campfire discussions whilst travelling from one battle to another. He remembered exchanging a wry glance with the Professor as they eavesdropped on Bernadetta and the Death Knight discussing their favorite flavor of sorbet (peach) and, on another occasion, heatedly debating the merits of ribbons versus hair clips for holding one’s hair out of one’s face.

No, he had never been accused of being sentimental, but he and Edelgard had finally eked out a trustworthy group of warriors and confidants, and it had changed him considerably. He actually cared about the fates of these ridiculous individuals. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. While Edelgard thought it was a show of strength for Hubert to be able to trust others despite his painful childhood, he felt that it was an erosion of some kind, a corruption of his emotional armor.

The smirk was a vapid moment, vanishing quickly from his face as a match fizzles out when dropped into water as he turned his shamefully sentimental thoughts turned to the present. It had been one year since their ultimate victory, but two of their number were no longer at Garreg Mach, and though he would never admit it, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss.

Edelgard had told Hubert that she hoped that the War would help Jeritza vanquish the Death Knight, too. Hubert had doubted this wildly optimistic claim, but it was with no satisfaction that he had found Jeritza’s letter on his desk the day after the Final Battle, thanking the Emperor but notifying her of his immediate and permanent departure. Jeritza did not explain further, but it seemed clear that the Death Knight’s bloodthirst was still raging, and Hubert supposed that he should be grateful to Jeritza that Garreg Mach didn’t become the Death Knight’s personal hunting grounds. Hubert had, however, employed various methods to keep track of the Death Knight. Really, it wasn’t too difficult; he only had to follow the strange tales of villagers reporting the sudden and bloody vanquishing of numerous bandit camps.

The Ashen Demon had also left. Like Jeritza, she had left immediately after the Final Battle, but unlike Jeritza, she had not announced or explained her departure. Hubert was much more troubled by this development, both at the loss of the Empire’s most powerful ally and as one of the few individuals somewhat close to her. She had planned to remain at Garreg Mach as an advisor as well as a professor, training both commoners and nobles alike. True, she was never the type who seemed fully beholden to anyone, but it niggled at Hubert. It seemed she had derived satisfaction and stimulation from her post, and she had left numerous projects and belongings abandoned – not least of which the Sword of the Creator. He had also tried to track her, sifting through reports of mercenaries, other academies, other militaries. He could find no evidence of her trademark skill or emotionless countenance.

Admonishing himself once again for allowing his thoughts to go down such a pointless and sentimental route, he turned his attention back to the Underground around him. Yes, he and Edelgard silently condoned this Black Market (otherwise, Edelgard had teased him, how would he get his various contraband for his own spells?), but he remained firm that they should routinely monitor the traffic and wares of the merchants. While he didn’t care one whit if responsible mages practiced dark magic, it was undeniable that Black Markets could be a spring of evil, feeding those who slither. So, his tasks were twofold: to stock up on supplies and keep a watchful eye.  
He approached his regular stall and approached the woman selling wares there – a capable merchant and his informant.

“Fey dust, henbane extract, and ego autem nox potion, if you please,” Hubert declared, placing a bag of coin filled with twice the cost of the supplies on the counter.  
The woman, allegedly named Jude, was thin but had an unexpectedly husky voice. “Of course, wait just a moment.” Hubert inclined his head and looked around while she went in back, presumably to prepare a hastily scribbled note for Hubert with reports of any suspicious activity.

His eyes traveled across a dozen stalls and twice as many customers, most of them mages, most of them masked. The stalls were all familiar, except two. One vendor had a Morfin accent and was rather cheerfully describing the gruesome effects of a poison to a wizened old crone ( _tired of her grandchildren I suppose,_ Hubert thought, a little wickedly). The other new stall had no customers, only a veiled witch standing perfectly still behind her counter. Hubert couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could feel her gaze was fixed on him. She had wares behind her, but Hubert shrewdly noted that the inventory was cheap and very limited. Odd to go to the effort to sell things here at the Abyss that most mages were perfectly able to acquire on the surface. He was just about to cross the alley and approach when Jude returned to the stall front.  
“Your potion and ingredients, sir. Please come again,” the husky voice intoned. But it was with a distinct air of being glad to be rid of him that she lifted the coin bag off the counter and turned back to her sums. 

“Just a moment,” Hubert said, partly for legitimate reasons, and partly because he had always suffered from a tendency to become ruthlessly stubborn at people who wanted him to go away. He waited with some satisfaction for Jude to look at him again. “That stall over there – it’s new and doesn’t seem to have much product,” he said in an undertone, and then more loudly to disguise their true conversation, “This is clearly less dust than you gave me for this price last time.” Jude seemed immediately to tense. She was not good at being subtle, Hubert thought irritably. “It’s all in the note, but please, go somewhere else to read it.” She then raised her voice to insult Hubert’s ability to measure fey dust for the benefit of any unwanted eavesdroppers nearby. Hubert affected the air of a disgruntled customer leaving in a huff. He dropped by some other stalls to further allay any suspicion before departing and heading back to the surface.

He liked the quiet and dark of the Abyss, and though it was bitterly cold and windy, the sun’s rays on his face were unrelenting and unwelcoming in equal measure. Blinking irritably, he swept off to his personal quarters. Upon his arrival, he tossed off his cloak and placed the bottles of fey dust and henbane extract in his ingredient cupboard, taking care to put it at a respectable distance from his coffee beans. His friendship with Ferdinand was only just stabilizing into something mutually bearable; it wouldn’t do for him to inadvertently poison the endearingly pompous von Aegir heir when they next drank tea and coffee together. Then, sitting at a luxurious desk with a surface large enough to land a wyvern on, he carefully unstuck the label from the bogus “nox” potion he had procured. Flipping the sticky wax paper over, his face darkened as he read the brief note.

“New stall suspicious. Few customers, only rich ones who go to only the new stall to buy cheap ingredients - mercenaries and noblemen, not mages. Might be a front?”  
Hubert frowned. Obviously, the business must be some kind of front, but what sort of trade would that be? A dark guild with covert military operations? But why would money need to change hands, as though in a market? Maybe it wasn’t a guild, but a merchant selling dark weapons too large and valuable to risk bringing into the market. Or perhaps, Hubert considered somberly, a clandestine guild for hire. This seemed the most likely, and the most problematic. Hubert looked over his map of incident reports, scanning the activity for any signs that might indicate a mysterious unidentified group wreaking havoc. He could see no such patterns, but he supposed the stall was fairly new. Maybe Foldan just hadn’t suffered their assault yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Hubert had informed Edelgard of the suspicious development immediately, and together she and Hubert decided that their best strategy was to employ stealth and speed rather than might and force. He had staked out the mysterious stall in the Underground Market, and followed the next customer, an obvious brute of an outlaw. He tailed the bandit until he had been able to discern his direction of travel. In the end, he had only needed follow as far as the woods near Garreg Mach before signaling his allies to attack. 

The battle itself was almost insultingly easy to win. As the final enemy battalion collapsed, Ferdinand and Sylvain indulged in childish victory woops on their mounts, and Hubert found he hated it as much as ever. They never failed to allow themselves the joy of victory before assessing the losses or reviewing the ever-present mistakes. “When the children in our ranks” he snapped, looking pointedly at red-headed men, “are quite finished taking primal enjoyment out of our easily obtained victory, we should perhaps continue our investigative mission?”

The two men had the grace to look slightly ashamed, splitting up with the others to explore the small encampment.

“I don’t see what you’re worried about, Hubie. They just look like a group of outlaws to me,” Dorothea said.

Hubert ignored her and approached the covered wagons huddled in the middle of the encampment. In addition to filling up the Empire’s coffers, nothing provided intelligence like reviewing the rations and supplies that a battalion were using. It was with some confusion that he discovered that one of the covered wagons lacked any back opening of the tarp. He fumbled in his satchel for a small dagger and cut the canvas away. As he cut, the knife clanged against a metal bar. With deepening confusion, he continued tearing away the canvas until he could see inside.

There was an awful stench, unmistakably a human who had not been bathed for days. His eyes fell upon a female’s nude and filthy body, covered in scars and wounds in various stages of healing. Her head didn’t move at the sudden light or sound of his intrusion, but remained averted and still, her blue hair hanging around her face, lank and greasy. Hubert’s heart was slamming against his chest. This could not be true, it was not what it appeared, surely it was someone else. He hissed an incantation, melting the bars of the cage the woman was locked in.

Stumbling into the now cramped cage, he grabbed the woman more firmly than he intended. She tried to recoil, but he had to see her face. Her movement made a metallic thud, and Hubert saw the wretched women had a metal collar chained to the metal bars of her cage. Making an effort to be gentler, he smoothed the blue locks out of the woman’s face. His heart clenched with recognition and sorrow.

“Byleth.” The woman flinched, shaking her head, but he’d know his Professor anywhere. “Byleth, what have they done to you?”


	5. Chapter 5

That night, the Black Eagle Strike Force gathered for their weekly meeting and dinner. Garreg Mach Meat Pie was being served, paired with an ale gifted from some grateful farmers that the Strike Force had aided against the endless harassment of bandits. Hubert usually looked forward to when the dish was served, but his appetite had abandoned him, and Caspar’s mutual but unseemly enjoyment of the meat pie was decidedly unhelpful in soothing his nausea. Nonetheless, even Caspar’s spirit had been dampened by the events of the day. News of the Professor’s return had spread rapidly through the grounds, and rumors of her condition had permeated the atmosphere like the freezing fog that currently clung to the windows.

When the noise of silverware slowed, Hubert cleared his throat, forestalling any idle chatter before the business of the meeting could take place.

“Welcome to the weekly meeting of the Black Eagle Strike Force,” he said formally. Bernadetta knocked over her ale as she fumbled with her satchel and pulled out quill and parchment. She was tasked with taking notes every meeting, and her duties never failed to collide with her dinner.

“While we have faced much larger enemies, I am nonetheless pleased at our victory today at Valthspire Pass. You all fought well, and we have yet to sustain a single casualty in combat. This small piece of good news aside, we have much more important matters to deal with.

“The encampment shows evidence of a slave trade. We are unfortunate in that we found and rescued only one slave, but I believe there is evidence of a more expansive underground trade. As I’m sure you have all heard, we immediately recognized the rescued slave as Professor Byleth. Linhardt has been ministering to her, but Byleth’s situation appears bleak. Her physical health is stable, but from what Linhardt has been able to discern, she has spent this past year as a sex slave to Lord Hurwolf.”

The reaction was immediate and intense.. The dregs of Bernadetta’s ale were spilled once more as she gasped loudly. Ferdinand paled, and Caspar threw his plate onto the floor, shattering it as he shouted, “No! I’ll kill Hurwolf! I’ll fucking kill him!”

“I will see order in this room!” Hubert barked. An aggrieved silence filled the room, and he turned his hawkish gaze to Caspar. “Yes, Caspar, I believe we all relate to your thirst for vengeance. We will all see to his demise.”

Mercedes’s high, clear voice rang out. “Let us not forget in our wrath the wellbeing of the Professor herself. Linhardt, I am sure I am not the only who would rather hear about the health and needs of our Byleth.” Seeing Caspar’s stricken face, she added kindly, “Caspar, I too relate to your reaction, but I think we should be cautious not to lose sight of the things that matter most.”

“Agreed, Mercedes,” Edelgard nodded her approval from the head of the table. “Linhardt, I want your full report.”

Linhardt, whose dinner also remained untouched, hesitated. His voice was quiet as he shook his head, saying “She must have been in the proximity of some kind of healer, because there is evidence of fractures that were healed.” He paused. “Dozens of healed fractures.” He pulled a small leather-bound book from the pocket of his robe. “In addition to that, she’s emaciated and malnourished. Her entire body is covered with lacerations, both healed and unhealed. I stitched those up, of course. Her wrists and ankles were bruised and cut from being shackled for extended periods of time, but those are now healed. Her left hip was branded with Hurwolf’s crest using magic, so there’s nothing I can do about that.”

Linhardt hesitated. “She also needed more… private treatment.” A hint of color appeared on his cheeks. “The wounds were recent enough that I believe the bandits forced themselves on her, too. I was able to stitch and heal even those wounds, but far more pressing is the psychological damage. The injuries, old and new, paint a picture of torture. Repeated sexual torture. There aren’t spells to fix the mind - not noble ones, anyway. The ones I know of are for manipulation of the mind, not the healing of it. The Flecte spell, for instance –“

“Linhardt, focus,” Edelgard warned, forestalling what was undoubtedly an academic tangent.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Linhardt inclined his head at Edelgard. “Simply put, she is spiritually and emotionally absent. Byleth seems to have forgotten her memories, personality, and even her name. She may need permanent care for the rest of her life. I cannot find any similar case accounts in the library. I will refocus my research on healing mental injury, but in the meantime, there’s little that I can do,” he finished bluntly.

Mercedes was the only one at the table who did not show visible signs of shock or distress. She eyed Linhardt thoughtfully. “Have you considered the possibility that the Professor is suffering from Fractus Animus syndrome?”

He frowned, his mind apparently working its way through this newly presented hypothesis. “I suppose you could be right,” he said slowly. “Of course, the Professor hasn’t said anything yet. So, it is difficult to confirm that, but if it is truly what the Professor’s malady is, at least I know exactly where to focus my research. It’s rare, but if we can confirm it, perhaps I can interview patients and their families, see how they cope with the disease, experiment with potions- “

Hubert cut him off. “Yes, thank you, Linhardt, that stream of consciousness may be more well suited for the cardinal room when you’ve established the details. In the meantime, I believe a more helpful approach might be actually explaining to us what Fractus Animus is.”

Linhardt replied, “Fractus Animus, or ‘Split Soul’ syndrome, is an extreme method the mind uses for handling severe trauma. The original soul, or host, withdraws in its own body, fracturing itself to make room for a new, additional persona. This persona’s purpose is twofold: the first is that the original soul remains intact, despite the trauma; the second purpose of the persona is usually to be a sort of guardian of the original soul. The second persona can be physically violent, manipulative, or meek – whatever the new persona needs to be to protect the original soul.”

Mercedes nodded. “This fracturing of soul comes with a terrible price. The second persona is out of host’s control. Once the trauma has been dealt with, the second persona still remains prominent within the host’s psyche. It is a rare occurrence, so rare that some healers doubt its existence. I’m sure all of us in this room already know better, however, as we fought alongside someone who suffers from Fractus Animus,” she said, to general astonishment. “Jeritza, my little brother.”

“I see,” Edelgard said quietly. “What caused Jeritza’s soul to split?”

Mercedes shook her head. “I’m sure you’ve all surmised something similar about the Death Knight being something my brother cannot fully control, but I’ve already told you more than I have a right to. I’m afraid it is his tale, and his alone to share. I doubt I know the full story myself.”

Hubert looked up at the chandelier, marshalling his thoughts. “Mercedes, does your brother know how to manage his condition at all? He was able to live at Garreg Mach, and he was able to avoid slaying any allies. He fought the correct enemy all throughout the War, and never appeared to lose control even as the Death Knight. We all know that he fled following our victory, yet even that seems to indicate some restraint on his part.”

“I’m afraid he’s never confided in me about his condition, and I have never asked. Emile is deeply private… but my observations are similar to yours, Hubert. I crossed paths once with the Death Knight at Garreg Mach, shortly before his departure. He raised his sword against me, but was able to stay his hand at the last moment. I talked to the Death Knight, and when I told him I trusted him, he seemed to withdraw and let Jeritza take control again. I trust him, even if Jeritza doesn’t.”

“Hardly an encouraging tale,” Felix deadpanned, displaying his usual tact level of none whatsoever.

“Felix, don’t!” Bernadetta said shrilly, rounding on him. “He saved your life in battle, as I recall.” Ferdinand, Sylvain, and Caspar’s mouths fell open slightly at this fierce proclamation. “I, err, happen to like Jeritza. He’s really nice! He doesn’t like people and he likes peach sorbet,” Bernadetta finished, burying her face behind her parchment.  
Linhardt looked eager. “Where is Jeritza now? Perhaps he could answer my questions. Quite apart from being absolutely fascinating, it’s possible that he might have suggestions for helping the Professor!”

“That seems reckless, even by my standards,” Caspar said, looking a little awed.

Mercedes smiled sadly. “I haven’t heard anything from him. That encounter was the last time I saw him. I think he was ashamed.”

“His whereabouts are not difficult to ascertain,” Hubert said dryly. “I need only follow the trail of dead bandit bodies currently sprawling across Enbarr. I am in favor of bringing him to Garreg Mach, but it certainly means we are all taking a risk. Your Majesty?”

Eyes swiveled to look at the Emperor as she assessed benefits, calculated risks. Finally, she replied, “I believe the Death Knight has shown himself a consistent ally, but I agree with Hubert that we must understand we are inviting a risk into our lives. Therefore, I believe we should ask once again for Jeritza’s assistance, but I will not allow him into Garreg Mach without unanimous agreement from the Strike Force. Mercedes, do you think he can help heal the Professor?”

“There is no healing, not from this. I believe my brother cared about the Professor. I cannot guarantee that he will be able to assist us, but I do think he would not refuse a plea for help on her behalf if he felt he could provide it.”

“That’s settled, then,” Edelgard said crisply. “All of those in favor of recruiting Jeritza back to Garreg Mach, say ‘aye’”.

Bernadetta made a show of tabulating responses before she said happily, “The ayes have voted unanimously.”

Hubert signaled for coffee. He had a long night of planning ahead of him.


	6. Chapter 6

Slave was confused. She had known the Hurwolf was giving her away. She hadn’t allowed herself to hope that she was about to meet a better master. Hope was dangerous. She had spent the past year memorizing Master’s body, moods, tastes. There was no way to avoid his rage, but she had at least learned how not to be a source of it.

Now, it seemed like she had arrived at her new home, but everything felt wrong. Her surroundings were strangely familiar. She felt like she should know the names of the faces around her. They seemed to want to talk endlessly, but she couldn’t understand the meaning of their words. What was wrong with her?

At first, these familiar people had tested her. Played with her and tried to tempt her into making a mistake. Leaving her in a room with a bed and open windows. Hurwolf had taught her that whores like her didn’t deserve a bed, but every time she curled up to sleep on the floor, awaiting her new master, she had woken up in the bed. Someone deliberately tempting her? It made no sense.

The sounds of the outdoors coming from the open window were still foreign to her, and being so close to the unknown overwhelmed her senses. She had tried to demonstrate her subservience by taking her punishment into her own hands, breaking one of the vulnerary bottles and cutting herself over and over again with the shards of glass.

The man with the green hair had come running through her door, calling for servants to clean up the glass as he yanked her bloody arms away from the glass. He had muttered healing incantations and given her another potion, which she had drank meekly, though she had suspected it had been a sedative.

Her world became a haze, halfway between wakefulness and sleep. She was still confused and overwhelmed, but she couldn’t summon the energy to even leave her bed. Day after day passed, and she realized this was just the next form of torture. Another iteration of the cell Hurwolf had used to punish her. That cell had been so dark that she could not tell whether her eyes were closed. To her shame, she found herself yearning for Hurwolf’s presence, just for another voice to break through her smothering fear. She thought she might even prefer the cell - at least she would know what was going on, what she was being asked to do.

Yes, she knew this was certainly another punishment. She just wished she knew how to make it stop.


	7. Chapter 7

Hubert regretted not deploying more of the Strike Force soldiers. They were tracking the Death Knight, and Hubert underestimated just how quickly the damnable demon could make himself scarce.

As it was, they were under attack from a rogue militia that had ambushed Hubert, and he had only Edelgard and Mercedes to assist. Edelgard as a front line with Hubert and Mercedes staying back for ranged attacks and healing, respectively, was anathema to him. Edelgard had already been forced to retreat due to a concentrated attack from the enemy’s archers. He was locked in battle with several mages. For every attack he cast, he had to endure three retaliating spells; Mercedes was repeatedly throwing Physic on him, but the net effect was still a rapid decrease in his life force.

His prospects were becoming progressively worse by the second. He had depleted the energy necessary for casting Dark Spikes, and his weaker spells—even with Mercedes repeatedly trying to replenish his health—were an insufficient match to the powers of the three mages.

It appeared Hubert’s end was drawing near. And it would be a stupid, random, pointless end, being taken by a small rogue militia while simply trying to travel. An inglorious death indeed.

One of the mages cast Meteor; he and Mercedes both fell, the ground shaking beneath them as hissing embers struck the earth around them. Hubert, coughing hot ash, tried to crawl his way over to her – if she was still alive maybe they could support each other and use their battalions for one final gambit, at least make their exit from this world a dignified one –

Hubert’s face collided with the soil as a spell slammed into his back, and everything went black.

~~~

Men who work in the shadows do not sleep heavily or wake slowly. When Hubert’s consciousness returned, he sat straight up, though his entire body protested.   
He quickly looked around, trying to establish the where and when of his surroundings. He was in his own bedroll, but in a small tent that looked unfamiliar to him. He could hear the soft pattering of wet snow on the canvas and smell the earthy pine of the forest. His eyes found Edelgard’s form, sleeping peacefully. She looked relatively unscathed. Every muscle in Hubert’s body relaxed in the wave of relief that flooded over him.

Still, they were in a stranger’s tent, and Hubert’s sense of unease remained. Grimacing at the pain in his spine, he rose and picked up his satchel, which had been placed at the foot of his bedroll. This was a good sign, he supposed, unless the enemy had an elaborate plan to lull him into a false sense of security. He silently located his spell tome and dagger from his pack and slowly lifted the tent flap, keeping his dagger poised.

It was dusk, and the remaining sunlight cast silhouettes over two forms. Hubert could make out the veil and rounded cap of Mercedes, standing over a much larger figure sitting beside a campfire.

“Stop.”

“Oh, Emile. We’ve talked about this before. Indulge me in being your big sister. How long has it been since you last let me tidy your hair?”

“Ughhh….” 

Hubert crept closer, and could make out Mercedes’s hands as they began to untie the hair ribbon, gently working out snarls. He knew neither individual would appreciate being eavesdropped on during such a private moment, but his conscience was not a sensitive device, especially when it came to gathering intelligence about the man in front him... Qualms? He had none.

Mercedes hummed quietly as she worked. After a few minutes, Jeritza leaned his head back and closed his eyes. When she finished combing the worst of the tangles, she gathered his hair back into the black ribbon and then sat down next to him, leaning her head on one of his broad shoulders. Jeritza’s body tensed, but he did not draw away.  
“It is ever a bitter sweetness to see you, Sister. I was not expecting our paths to cross again.”

Mercedes paused, seeming to consider her words carefully. “I’m sorry to be the source of your troubles yet again. I’m grateful to you, Emile. You saved my life – and those of my two friends. I can’t believe you fought that militia single-handedly when the three of us were not sufficient to the task. I’m so proud of you.”

Jeritza made no reply. With obvious reluctance, Mercedes continued, “We left the monastery to come ask for your help.”

“Explain.” His tone was unreadable.

“Well, it’s hard to know where to begin. I’m afraid this has been upsetting to all of us. And I’m afraid it will be especially unsettling to you.  
”  
In halting words, Mercedes explained the discovery of the slave trade, finding Byleth, learning of how she had spent the past year.

Jeritza neither moved nor spoke for the duration of the story, but when it had concluded, his eyes were like pieces of flint. **“Who enslaved her?”**

“You – you must be the Death Knight?” Mercedes said warily. The Death Knight merely returned her gaze. “You misunderstand me,” Mercedes said. “We are not here to ask you to kill.”

The Death Knight suddenly stood, his voice a low growl. **“Tell - me – who – this – man – is.”** He towered over his sister. Hubert crept closer, preparing to intervene if necessary.

Mercedes stood up and glared back up at her brother, tears of frustration in her eyes. “I grow weary of reminding everyone that shedding his blood won’t help her!” Hubert had seen Mercedes charge into countless battles, yet this was the first time he had ever heard true anger in her voice.

The Death Knight laughed humorlessly in a scornful exhale. **“You’re despicably naïve. You seek a man who thirsts for bloodshed to tell me I cannot slay a person so deserving of my blade? This may shock you, you who spent your childhood sheltered in your mother’s loving arms, but there is no redemption. Not for me, not for this man. I will relish soaking my scythe in his blood without your blessing, I care nothing for it.”** He spat bitterly on the ground.

Mercedes ignored the insults, though tears ran down her face. “You are not listening to me! I would celebrate his end. I don’t care if you slaughter him. I am trying to tell my brother that Byleth needs his help. I’m saying she’s been lost to her own demons, and destroying that scum won’t make her feel any less enslaved to them.”

“Listen to me,” Mercedes said more softly. She came up and grabbed the Death Knight’s hand. Stupid, reckless woman, Hubert thought. “Please, just listen. I know you’re my brother as much as Emile is. I came to ask both of you because I believe Byleth is trapped inside of herself just as you and Emile are trapped together. I knew this would hurt you, and I know I have no right to ask anything of you. Both of you, who have done so much for me already.” Her other hand rose up, cupping his jaw. “But I think you’re the only person in Fodlan who has been through what she’s been through, who could guide her through the difficult times ahead.”

There was nothing comfortable about the silence that stretched between them now. Gradually, though, Hubert perceived a shift in the Death Knight’s demeanor; his jaw softened and his eyes seemed almost to change color and shape into something soft and sorrowful. He seemed to be suddenly exhausted.

“Oh, Emile.” Mercedes embraced him, burying her face in his tunic. Jeritza wrapped his arms lightly around his sister and held her as she cried, while Hubert crept silently back into the shadows.


	8. Chapter 8

Linhardt startled awake as the door to the infirmary burst open. Unusually for him, this nap had actually been unintentional, and he felt sheepish as he hastily bent to pick up his inkwell, which had been overturned by his reaction to the sudden arrival of his visitors. Trying to wipe the drool off his face inconspicuously, he turned around.

“Caspar, this must be the hundredth time I’ve had to tell you that the Professor isn’t ready to receive visitors – “ his voice trailed away in surprise as he saw Jeritza crossing the room in long strides. Edelgard, who was following him, seemed to take three strides for each step the knight took. Even Hubert, who was quite tall himself, was forced to travel in the larger man’s wake.

“Ah, Linhardt,” Hubert said smoothly. “Industrious as ever, I see.”

Linhardt took the verbal blow in stride. “Though you’ll never hear me apologize for taking a nap, this one is different in the sense that I truly did need it.” He yawned loudly. “It was a long night. The Professor cut herself with a broken bottle, and I had to restrain her until the Sedating Concoction kicked in. Neither of us particularly enjoyed the experience.” His voice was even, but he looked haggard.

“Thank you, Linhardt. I’m sure you recall that the Professor would have few others treat her. It comforts me to know that she has a healer that we know she trusted,” Edelgard said.

Jeritza interrupted her, ignoring the scathing look from Hubert. “You…tied her to the bed and drugged her?” The scowl reminded Linhardt slightly of the gaping maw-like eye sockets of the Death Knight.

Linhardt shrugged, looking miserable. “It sounds awful, I know, but it needed to be done.” It was a phrase that healers seemed to be forced to say too often.  
“Of course, Linhardt. The Professor and I both have good cause to have faith in your abilities, and I’m sure that’s enough for Jeritza, too.” She paused to glance at Jeritza, a little pointedly. “We came to the Infirmary so that we could discuss the terms and conditions of Jeritza’s stay here.”

“Indeed. As the Professor is currently unable to articulate her own needs, we thought that as her healer, you would be willing to be her advocate and represent her interests for the purposes of this meeting.” Hubert said.

“Certainly.” Linhardt nodded and gestured to the long table nearby that he and Manuela used to debrief the nursing staff.

When they had all been seated, Hubert said, “Lord von Hyrm has been apprised regarding her current behavior and our suspicions of Fractus Animus syndrome. He has agreed to provide insight and advice to the extent of his abilities.”

Linhardt straightened eagerly. “Excellent. I am sure your information will be invaluable. We have yet to see Byleth’s typical behavior manifest in any recognizable way. Tell me, how do you experience your transitions from your persona? Are there cues or triggers that precede your transitions?”

Jeritza gave a low growl. “I am not here to be prodded like some kind of laboratory experiment. Since you mention what summons the Death Knight, though, I can inform you with certainty that he does not appreciate unsolicited inquiries into deeply private matters.”

Linhardt’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, Hubert cleared his throat. “I’ll be the first to agree with anyone who finds some of Linhardt’s mannerisms abrasive, but I would remind you that threatening members of the Black Eagles will not go unnoticed or unaddressed.”

Jeritza communicated his contempt with a look of supreme unconcern.

Edelgard raised her voice slightly to regain control of the room. “We are all allies. Since we are speaking of the Death Knight, however, I’d like to address his interests first.”  
“His…interests?” Jeritza looked puzzled, his previous annoyance evaporating.

“Indeed. I’m sure you recall that our previous alliance was an exchange. I neither anticipate nor expect that we could ask for your help without giving the Death Knight adequate resources for his…hunt. Therefore, I must ask you for your honest response to my offer. I will not lie to you – we are no longer in war and the opportunities I can offer you will not be as plentiful or challenging as before. Nevertheless, I believe I can promise you a minimum of one battle or skirmish per week. Will that satiate the Death Knight?”

Jeritza’s eyes looked unfocused for a moment, as though he were turning his gaze inward. “It may. You will have to keep a watchful eye on him, though… He is never fully within my control. If you can have your little shadow constantly staring over my shoulder and following me around whenever he thinks I’m not looking ,“ he added grudgingly, scowling at Hubert, “I have high hopes that the Death Knight will leave us to attend to more important matters, as he did during the Crimson War.”

Hubert smirked. “As if I would do anything less. Her Majesty is once again extending her trust. For that matter, so is every member of Black Eagle Strike Force, myself included. Make me regret that trust and I will personally ensure that the Death Knight becomes very sorry indeed.”

“Yes, thank you, Hubert.” Edelgard sounded exasperated. “Now that we have completed the obligatory exchange of veiled threats, might we actually discuss those important matters?”

Linhardt gave an overview of injuries and behaviors that needed to be treated. Jeritza’s face was ashen and his fists were clenched, his knuckles becoming increasingly white. Linhardt decided to curtail his summary to the bare essentials. “Self-harm is an issue, so Byleth must be constantly supervised for now. She’s severely underweight and will need to follow my food regimen precisely. I’ve already sent that to the dining hall. Thus far, we have been unable to establish any sort of rapport with her. Your role, ideally, would be to use your insight to inform her healers as to the most sensitive method of treatment. In addition, I hope that your personal experiences will help you establish a relationship with her. At this point, we’ll be making considerable progress if we could even find someone who resonated with her enough for her to speak to them.”  
“As she has all but ignored the rest of us, we’re hoping that you’ll be able to communicate with her. We have already prepared your old quarters for you, and it has been furnished with two beds if she’d prefer to stay with you... You would be able to oversee her recovery personally. I know this is asking a great deal, but I think it vital. As it stands, I’m not sure we understand Fractus Animus adequately for us to oversee her care,” Edelgard said. Jeritza nodded but did not speak. 

Linhardt continued, “One last item. I believe the outlaws who were transporting her must have also forced themselves upon her. It is clear to me that the most recent assault was quite violent.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve been able to treat those injuries, but I think your knowledge should be as complete as possible.”

Jeritza nodded again. The tension in his body was visible. “When can I see her?”


	9. Chapter 9

A blonde man knelt before her and placed a hand beneath her chin, gently but firmly directing Slave’s gaze to him.

“Hello, Professor,” said, a soft, deep voice. 

She respectfully averted her eyes from his face, but Slave recognized the voice. It had reminded her in a past life of a deep, still current of water, but with powerful eddies and undercurrents of deepest sorrow hiding just beneath the surface. A past life… where had she heard the voice before?

“Look at me,” said the mournful voice, and while the voice was kind, it was clear that this was an order. 

Slave relaxed. At last, an expectation she should fulfill, even if it was not one her old master would have liked. Her blue eyes rested upon a familiar face, a strong jawline, piercing grey eyes. 

The man smiled slightly. “Good. Do you remember me, Byleth?” She flinched at the sound of that name, unable to stop herself from breaking eye contact, and retreated from his hand to push herself back against the wall.

“I’m not Byleth.” Her voice was unreadable except for a hint of terrible fear. “I know I’m not called Byleth. Please don’t hurt me.” His soothing voice, combined with the fear of that hated name, spurred her from the silence that had lasted months. Her voice was scratchy and rough from disuse. It hurt to speak.

“I will not hurt you.” The voice remained calm. “If your name’s not Byleth” -she flinched again- “then what are you called?”

“My old master called me Slave. But they said I don’t have a master anymore, so I don’t know what I’m called. And I’m not supposed to talk.” She hugged herself, hating the way her body rocked with terror and uncertainty. No master. No name. She had no idea what the expectations were, or what kind of punishment she’d earn as a result of her ignorance.

“That’s quite alright. I expect you to continue speaking to me. What would you like to be called?”

There was a long pause. Was this a test? “I… don’t know. I was called Slave,” she repeated. “Who is my new master? My new master should name me,” she continued hastily.

“Hmm,” said the man thoughtfully. Her traitorous body trembled even more violently, deciding the huge man in front her was angry. She babbled indiscriminate apologies for every imagined offense she could have incurred during their brief conversation so far. She was terrified; not even Hurwolf was this tall or imposing.

She startled when he placed his huge hands on her small shoulders. ”You misunderstand. I’m not angry. I once knew you as Byleth, but you don’t seem to like that name anymore. But I’d like to call you something, and I don’t like the name Slave. What, then, should I call you?”

“I-I don’t know, sir.” She hesitated in her apprehension. “Are you my new master? Because I should only be called by what my master likes.”

“Would you like someone to be your master?” the man asked, carefully.

“My master, he – he hurt me. I don’t want to hurt more. But I don’t know what to do without a master. All this open air, there are so many people here, I don’t know what to do. I think they want me to talk.” Her eyes welled up with tears. The man’s grip on her shoulders tightened, but it was grounding rather than imposing. “I don’t know what I want. I need someone to tell me what I want, to tell me what to do, and to punish me when I’m wrong.” Tides of shame roiled in her gut, corroding her.  
The man sighed. “Here’s what I propose. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it is only a proposal. You are free to decline my offer. I could be a sort of master, if you like. I would expect you to obey me, but I would try my best not to hurt you. If and when you’re ready not to have a master, you need only ask me to leave. I will not, however, abandon you unless you should desire it. How do you feel about that?”

Slave didn’t understand much of the man said. What she did understand she assumed to be a trick, but she found it comforting that the man would care enough even to trick her into trusting him. She also gleaned from his words that yes, she had finally met her new master. She didn’t feel joy, but she was relieved that her body and mind would once again reach the equilibrium she was used to.

“Thank you, Master, yes.” She had so many questions -what was her name, where would he take her, how did she satisfy him, but she decided to wait to be told. She didn’t want to be impertinent and she had not been able to sense what this man wanted.  
The man seemed like he was waiting for more, but when she lapsed into prolonged silence he sighed again. “Alright. Very good. Now, what would you like me to call you?”

“I-I really don’t know. I only should be called what you wish.”

“Very well. Hmm.” The man considered her. “I shall call you Violet.” A timid nod. “Very well, then. Our first order of business is establishing your sleeping arrangements. You may stay in the infirmary for a few more days, or we can move you into the quarters provided by Emperor Edelgard.”

“I don’t – I don’t know.” The professor’s eyes were wide and fearful, and her whole body resumed its violent trembling.

With grace that belied his hulking form, the man moved from his crouch to sit against the wall next to her, lanky legs crossed and stretched out in front of him. “What is frightening you?”

Her head dropped in shame. “I’m not used to making choices. I don’t want to make the wrong one.”

“Ah. That is understandable,” The man said softly. “There isn’t a wrong choice. I’m not a master who will test you only as an excuse to punish you. When I give you a choice, I only want you to pick what makes you most comfortable.”  
She was not reassured.

“We’ll work on practicing choices, but that can wait. For now, I will try to avoid overwhelming you. I’d like you to move into your personal quarters.”

~~~

Jeritza waited until the early hours of the morning, so that when they ascended to the third floor it was under the cover of darkness. As he’d hoped, the inhabitants of the monastery were asleep. The professor tired much too quickly, and he scooped her into his arms. She was alarmingly light, her bones digging into his flesh.

He carried her easily into the large suite that Edelgard had ordered him to use. It was located at the western end of the courtyard, and two sentries had been stationed to guard the entryway. Jeritza himself had insisted upon this, in case the Death Knight resurfaced. It was probably not enough to protect Byleth from him, but Edelgard and Mercedes had been relentless that in the hour of the Professor’s need, his place was at Garreg Mach. These guards would be as swatting flies to the Death Knight, but it was the only preventative measure he could think of.

Without acknowledging the guards, he entered and deposited his charge on the bed in the antechamber. Previously a small sitting room, it had been hastily converted to another bedroom.  
The professor’s eyes met his, and she quickly moved off the bed, sinking to her knees in front of him and lowering her gaze. She began taking off her cloak and was just about to remove her hospital shift before Jeritza gently grabbed her wrists.  
“There’s no need for that,” Jeritza said softly, even as he saw red.

“Oh.” She sounded profoundly confused before seeming to understand. He released her wrists. She climbed back on the bed, but to Jeritza’s horror, she pulled up her shift above her waist, opening her legs. His hands covered hers and pulled the shift back down.  
“Do not do that. Do not do that ever again.” His voice was suddenly stern.

“I’m sorry, Master. I thought – “ her voice trailed off, sounding wretched.

He sat at her feet on the bed. She flinched as the bed creaked under the weight of his body.

“This is not why I brought you to stay in my quarters with me. I’m told you struggle in the night especially... Lose touch of where and when you are. I’m here to help you regain your sense of self, but I won’t ever order you to give me or anyone else your body.”  
She stared; eyes wide. “Then why am I on a bed?’

Jeritza blinked as though she flicked cold water in his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not allowed on a bed unless to service my Master.” She dropped her gaze, bangs hiding her expression.

“No, that’s your old master’s rules. You are allowed to sleep on a bed. In fact, I insist that you do so.” He could tell she was becoming rapidly overwhelmed with all of the radical changes to her life, preparing for an unknown punishment to rain down upon her at any moment. “Look at me. Good. Now, I want you to listen very carefully. Your body is your own. I do not want you to use your body to ‘service’ anyone again. You don’t even have to touch anyone ever again if you don’t want to.”

A long silence stretched out between the two. The woman’s fingers picked absently at a seam on her shift. He had many more questions, many more things to address, but Jeritza had to acknowledge to himself that imposing even more change, however empowering, would only serve to scare her more.

“That hospital gown looks as rough as burlap. It must be uncomfortable.” He rose and went to his bedroom. After a moment of befuddlement -had none of these brats thought that she might actually like some real clothes? – he dug through his own paltry belongings, pulling out one of his own soft white tunics. He returned to the antechamber.

“Here, you can wear this for tonight. We’ll see someone about getting you clothes tomorrow...There’s a water closet behind that door,” he pointed. “You can go get changed there. I’m going to go sleep in the other bedroom, but I’ll leave the door open. If you need anything, I expect you to come ask me.” He added a touch of authority to his tone to ensure her obedience.

He retired to his bedroom, but did not lay down. Based on Linhardt's indication that she might harm herself, he didn’t risk leaving their quarters, but his insides seethed. He could feel the Death Knight’s fury, his ache to inflict suffering. **He wanted to see Hurwolf impaled on a pike, he wanted to find a way for him to remain alive as long as possible while he begged, whimpered from the pain, force Hurwolf to bleed and watch his own life force flow out of him for days while he squealed like a stuck pig –**  
Jeritza closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. _I can’t let you out yet,_ he pleaded with the side of himself that he loathed. _Please, don’t take over, not right now._ Unbidden, he thought of Byleth, the way her damaged body had felt so frail and fragile in his arms.  
This line of thinking was a mistake. The fury inside of him exploded, his head bursting with pain.

**There was only one opponent for us,** the Death Knight erupted. Jeritza’s head pounded with every word. **Our true equal has been broken. And now we have no one.**

As suddenly as he had arrived, the Death Knight withdrew. Head still throbbing, Jeritza’s back slid down the wall, his legs buckling. He had forgotten the extent of the Death Knight’s burning desire to fight Byleth, to conquer or be conquered by her. He knew this had been a mistake, but in his infinite stupidity, his utter lack of self-discipline, he had let Mercedes convince him that he alone could help Byleth.

Like the Death Knight, he felt suddenly hopeless and alone. He had expected amnesia, but hadn’t been prepared to speak to the woman he loved and find not even the barest flicker of recognition. Only fear and pain and despair. He remembered the last few weeks prior to the Final Battle. He and Byleth had sparred hours into the night, walking together back to the barracks. He had kept telling her he was waiting to kill her, and she had just looked at him with an impish little smile on her lips. He had felt understood, not judged, not feared. Mercedes aside, it was the first time since childhood that he had felt unconditionally regarded by another.

Jeritza leaned his head back against the wall and wept.


	10. Chapter 10

Jeritza checked on his charge just as dawn was breaking. Violet sat on the bed, legs crossed. She was staring vacantly at the wall opposite her, and he realized that he had not been the only one to forgo sleep that night. 

“Good morning,” he said quietly, in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid startling her. She shifted her gaze to him, though she did not meet his eye or reply. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, Master.” He was uncomfortably reminded of the unfeeling dolls they had fought so many times on the battlefield, with their jerky movements and vacant eyes. 

“You don’t have to call me Master,” he said. “You can call me Jeritza.”

The silence in the room drew out. He had hoped for a sign of recognition at his name, but her face remained blank. Jeritza berated himself for the selfishness of his disappointment. 

He walked across the sitting room and opened the door. “You.” He gave a terse nod to one of the guards. “Go to the Countess Varley’s dormitory and ask her if she can spare a few outfits for the Professor.”

He shut the door before giving the guard a chance to reply. He went to the water closet and performed the morning’s cleansing, washing his face and scrubbing his teeth. After he dried his face, he re-entered the sitting room. Violet was still staring vacantly at the wall, holding perfectly still.

He sat down wearily in a nearby armchair and surveyed her from the corner of his eye. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked, finally. He felt too weary to eat, but the tension within the room had made him restless. He would have preferred to go unleash his stress on the training grounds, but breakfast would have to do for now. 

“I eat when I’m given food,” she said simply.

“Very well. We’ll wait for your clothes to arrive and then we shall go visit the dining hall.”

~~~

Due to the earliness of the hour, the dining hall was blessedly empty apart from the stolid staff, who seemed as content as ever to feign polite nonrecognition. They had not yet begun preparations for breakfast, but hastily served them toast and eggs. Violet’s appearance had improved with the addition of properly fitting clothes. She even seemed to carry herself with considerably more confidence, though she seemed already exhausted by the short walk. Jeritza wondered idly how much of her physical condition was due to being confined and how much was due to her most recent assault. He felt a sudden bolt of wrath and hastily turned his thoughts elsewhere before the Death Knight could sense a weakening.

He had already consumed the contents of his plate, but she ate slowly, cautious to not make a mess. Another painfully stark difference between the woman before him now and Byleth, whose ravenous and somewhat violent appetite had been second only to that of the Caspar boy. Jeritza distracted himself from his anger by considering their next steps. 

He had been a nobleman’s child living in a staffed house before becoming a nomadic warrior. Thus, he had never cared for so much as a house plant in his life, and his current endeavors at trying to help negotiate Byleth back to her own life had made even the most mundane of tasks fraught with difficulty. He recalled Byleth and Hubert poring over maps of the Empire, moving small figurines across drawings of battlefields and arguing animatedly with each other about leaving a battalion overtaxed, or whether to use Edelgard as a front line to lure enemies within firing range. Jeritza had relished the latitude given to the Death Knight; he had no interest in being an automaton, acting on others’ strategic machinations; he had only ever obeyed his own command on the battlefield. As far as he was concerned, his strategy was made rather flawless by virtue of its simplicity: **be the strongest; rely upon no one.**

Now, when his role was that of a caregiver, he felt like Byleth and Hubert, obsessing over identifying obstacles, trying to foresee every implication and forming possible contingency plans. He did not appreciate the responsibility currently resting upon his shoulders, nor did he feel adequate to the task. Mercedes seemed certain that his experiences with his own affliction would guide Byleth magically back into their lives. Jeritza had acquiesced partly because he trusted Mercedes’s judgment far more than his own in such matters, but his misgivings were deepening. It seemed to him that this arrangement was akin to asking a sick patient to treat another ill person simply because they had experienced the affliction themselves. 

He had not pressed the professor for the details of her experiences; he knew that neither of them was ready for that – they may never be. Nevertheless, he had been careful to listen to every word she had haltingly told him, trying to make inferences and clarify what her daily life had been like during the past year. Their experiences were probably more different than they were alike, but he knew what it was to be trapped like an animal, impotent. The rage and restlessness he felt under his father’s rule still lingered within him. As unconvinced as he was of his ability to help Byleth, he supposed that years of battling his own demons had imparted to him some knowledge. He recalled his first years after the culling of House Bartels; in some ways, that time had been even bleaker and more hopeless than the terrible years before. What would life have been like if he had known someone who understood, who could tell him what was happening to him? Would it have been easier to bear?

There was work to do – distracting himself with abstractions and memories would achieve nothing. Feeling overwhelmed and slightly ill, he suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten. He glanced over at the professor’s plate, which was empty. She was staring blankly at the table. He was confused for a moment before realizing that he had lost track of time. She had finished eating and not seen fit to interrupt his reverie. He grunted in annoyance; it had been some time since his control over himself had been so insufficient as to lose his sense of time and place... He must be more vigilant.   
~~~  
Winter was still in full force. It was a rare windless day, but the temperature was still frigid. Ice covered the fishing pond, and the trees still held on to the previous night’s heavy frost. He took in a lungful of the cold air, relishing the slight sting. 

“What would you like to do today?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I am not sure, Master.”

“Jeritza… My name is Jeritza.” 

“Yes, Jeritza.” The way she said it still made his name sound like a title. He sighed. This was intolerable. 

“I would like you to try to be more vocal. For now, I suggest a compromise. I will choose what to do with our time until lunch, but then we shall do something you find enjoyable or worthwhile.”

“I don’t know – “ 

“I’m not asking anything difficult of you. Or at least, it wouldn’t be if you would simply respond openly to me,” he snapped. She shrank away from him, shoulders hunched and face averted. His annoyance was aggravated rather than allayed, and it took a concerted effort to soften his tone. “I apologize. I should not have spoken harshly to you… Do you recall my mentioning to you that our paths have crossed before?” 

She gave a small nod, looking puzzled. 

“We were perhaps…close, I think. You’ve changed considerably since last we met. I’m still becoming accustomed to who you are now. I keep expecting you to behave as you once did.”

She gave another nod, but said nothing. At least that gesture was familiar, he thought irritably.

“Yes. Well, I need to train. This way.” And really, it was a need. He knew the tightening feeling in his chest did not bode well for either of them, to say nothing of the throbbing headache which had not abated since the Death Knight’s appearance the night before. He had to control it while he still had the ability to do so. 

They walked through the grounds in silence for some time. The grass, brittle with frost, crunched beneath their feet. 

She surprised him by speaking without solicitation for the first time since their reunion. “What was I like when we knew each other?” 

He made an appreciative sound. Recalling that people generally did not find that a sufficient response, he reluctantly added, “You were an exceptionally skilled warrior; a general, in fact. We spent much time together, training and fighting. I never grew weary of watching you work.” There was so much more to say, but he didn’t feel like elaborating. 

She hesitated. “Were you my previous master? You don’t seem…” her voice trailed away.

He gave a short chuckle, even though the underlying reason for his amusement was not funny at all. “No.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t think I ever told you what to do. Neither of us could have borne that. I think I would not have survived the experience, even if I had been so inclined.”

Her deference seemed to briefly give way to astonishment. Her eyes actually met his in a moment of surprise. His smile broadened slightly as he looked down at her. “Oh, yes. If anything, I was the one taking orders from you. Only when I felt like it and happened to agree with you, of course. Sometimes I agreed with your course of action and I still didn’t heed your instructions.”

“Why?” 

He shrugged. “To irk you, I suppose. I despise following orders, yes, but I didn’t usually despise following you.” 

Her eyes seemed distant and she was absently twitching her fingers, as though enumerating points to herself. This was another familiar gesture that he recognized.

He couldn’t resist. “What are you pondering?” 

“You say you don’t care for following orders, and that you didn’t wish to give me orders when you knew me. You don’t want to use my body.” Her words were halting, and he knew he was overextending both of their conversational repertoires. “I was wondering why you want to be my master if all of that is true.”

“Hm…” He supposed he should not have inquired. He didn’t feel like talking right now, especially when the topic at hand was so precarious. “I believe it’s accurate to say you were overwhelmed to the point of exhaustion when you were at the infirmary. It was a hasty decision meant to comfort you.” In the morning light, the choice seemed unwise and manipulative, to say nothing of how tedious he was already beginning to find it. 

They had reached the training grounds, and he shouldered one of the doors open. He breathed in the smell of sand and masonry , and the tension coiled in his chest loosened slightly. 

“Why did you –“ her voice broke off and her body radiated fear. This was the only reaction either of them had had time for as a blue-haired young man shouted and ran toward her at top speed.

“Professor!! I just knew you’d be back to training in no time!” He had been about to embrace her before Jeritza stepped in front of her, glowering. Caspar, unable to stop his own inertia in time, collided with Jeritza’s torso and landed heavily on the stone floor.

“Hey!” he shouted as he quickly stood up again.

“You startled her. It’s generally foolish to touch people without solicitation, and it was especially thoughtless in this circumstance. Be more mindful in future, for I will not be so polite next time.”

“Polite?” Caspar huffed incredulously. “The only way that could have been less polite was if you had used a weapon to knock me over.”

“Exactly.” He was already crossing the room, feeling uninspired as he eyed the wood training weapons in the rack. 

Despite the young man’s indignance, he was pleased to see Caspar was amending his approach. He had stepped back to give her more space. “Heya, Professor, good to see you here.”

She looked at Caspar blankly, but the man seemed undeterred. “Do you wanna spar with me? I can’t wait to show you how I’ve improved. Maybe I’ll finally beat you this time!” 

Jeritza snapped, “She doesn’t remember you right now, and she’s in no condition to train.” Turning Violet, he said, “There’s a bench over there for you to sit on if you’d like to watch, or I suppose you could wait outside if you prefer.” 

Wordlessly, she sat down on the raised stone wall around the arena, leaning her back against the pillar. He rather liked that she had demonstrated some volition, however small. 

He approached the nearest weapons rack and selected a relatively undamaged lance, feeling its balance. Not great, but acceptable. It was good practice to use subpar weapons occasionally, he supposed. “You favor the axe, I recall? I shall forgo using a sword then.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess… but I really don’t need you to make it easy on me.”

He merely replied with a dismissive snort. Training lance in hand, he loped to the center of the small arena.

“Um, hello? Weren’t you listening to me?” 

“An axe is an axe, and it is not wise to wield it against a sword. Surely I taught the current Minister of Military Affairs at least that much.” 

Caspar griped under his breath as he made to put away his steel axe in exchange for a training one. 

“No. Use your real axe. If you hold back, I am going to break you.” He hadn’t intended it as a taunt, but Caspar’s crestfallen face indicated otherwise. Nevertheless, he complied, following Jeritza to the fighting space. 

Jeritza turned his neck from left to right, his joints popping in rapid succession. He focused for a moment on relaxing each of his muscles in turn, loosening the tension that had been building in his body since the day before. 

With a bored flick of his hand, he gestured at Caspar to begin.

Caspar surprised him by rushing swiftly towards him. Caspar ducked his head and weaved toward the right as he slashed his axe at Jeritza. The taller man easily parried the blow with the gauntlet of his unarmed right hand. There was a delicious sound of metal clashing with metal, and Jeritza nearly smiled as he swung his lance in a vicious uppercut, attempting to connect with Caspar’s chest. Displaying a speed and dexterity that certainly had not been present during Jeritza’s brief tenure at the academy, Caspar darted just out of reach, ducking again. Caspar took advantage of his unguarded side and struck his knee with the blunt end of the axe. He heard rather than felt his own bones breaking. 

They were both momentarily stunned. Jeritza recovered first, and exploiting Caspar’s crouch, drove his elbow into his opponent’s nose, sending him reeling backward. Jeritza stepped back and with an almost apathetic strike of his lance, sent the younger man sprawling onto the floor, axe flying from his grip. 

“Ah. Short, but sweet.” He closed his eyes and indulged in the sharp pain in his leg for a moment. 

“Ugh. That was not how I imagined this going down,” Caspar said thickly from the floor. Jeritza opened his eyes to see that he had broken the boy’s nose. He extended a gloved hand and helped Caspar stand, wincing at the increased weight on his injured leg.

“That was the first strike I’ve failed to dodge for quite some time… I thank you. It was clever to use your short stature to hobble me.” 

“Yeah.” Caspar put his hands on his hips and tilted his head upward, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose. “Linhardt helped me work that out. I usually have better luck with it.”

Jeritza shook his head. “Your speed is much improved. I daresay you could have landed several more blows if you had not allowed yourself to succumb to your own surprise.”

“Hah! Well, I’ll be even better next time. You’re right, though - I was surprised to actually hit you! That’s the first time I’ve done that, huh?” 

“If that is the case, then I doubt you need confirmation from me.” Being too liberal with his praise might put him at risk of enduring future attempts at friendly conversation from Caspar. He added, “It was reckless to place such heavy reliance on speed and luck. You should be especially wary of any opponents who are already aware of your strategy… Myself, for instance.” 

“If you’re going to use that strategy, you ought to use a shield.” The professor’s voice was quiet, but unapologetic. He stared at her in surprise. 

Misunderstanding their confusion, she elaborated, “Even if your opponent knows what to expect, you could have used a shield to protect you until you got too close to your opponent for them to use their lance effectively. They’d be forced to either parry with their own arm, as Jeritza did, or step back to a defensive position – even if they already knew of your strategy.”

She must be starting to remember her surroundings, he thought as she went to the supplies cupboard, getting a clean towel for Caspar’s face and two healing vulneraries. Caspar took her offerings with enthusiasm, swallowing the contents in several noisy gulps. Jeritza accepted his vulnerary but did not drink it just yet; the pain of bone grating on bone was grounding, and he needed to make use of it. 

“Thanks, Professor! I thought I should focus on speed, but maybe you’re right.” Caspar turned to him. “Let’s see how it works, if you’re brave enough! Hah!” 

Jeritza nodded his agreement. He was starting to enjoy himself.


	11. Chapter 11

Edelgard scanned the documents in her hand as she ascended the stone steps to the third floor. Hubert’s spidery cursive told her of various insurrections, bandit encampments, suspicious activity – much of it coming from the direction of the Nuvelle Province. She had hoped this would be a time of peace, a time to indulge, to catch up on the years of youth she and Hubert had lost. She had anticipated some conflict, but nothing like the current onslaught of nobles rebelling against her. More focused on toppling Rhea and her puppet church, which had been staggering in scope and power, she had come to think of Those Who Slither in the Dark as an afterthought, an addendum to much more important considerations. Hubert’s warnings of their power had been dire and frequent, but given the man’s tendency to make all of his warnings dire and frequent, she had been somewhat dismissive. She must do better – all the sacrifices that others had made on her behalf were so that she could usher in a time of peace and prosperity. Not this. 

She greeted the guards posted outside of his quarters and knocked lightly on the door. Jeritza answered immediately, his impeccable dress belying his pale and drawn face. 

“Good morning, Jeritza. Are you well? You look quite ill.”

He shook his head. “I am perfectly fine, Your Majesty.”

She frowned. “I can never understand why people insist on trying to convince me that they’re doing better than they are. It’s a poor leader who cannot be confided in.”

“It is no reflection on you,” he said. She made no reply, indicating with her silence that his reply was not satisfactory. Reluctantly, he added, “Times of inactivity do not suit me.”

“You should have spoken sooner. I expect you to tell me of your needs. You won’t be of use to anyone if you don’t care properly for yourself,” she said sternly. Her face softened. “How is our Professor? I heard you took her out on the grounds yesterday and that she spoke briefly to Caspar. Do you think she would care to speak to me?”

“She just fell asleep. It was…a long night. Generally, she seems to be making small improvements. I believe she is starting to remember her life before.” She noted with interest the subtle softening in Jeritza’s face. It was rare to discern any of his feelings based on face expression alone.

“That is notable progress indeed. You have my gratitude. Better to let her rest, of course.” She felt intense disappointment, but reminded herself of her role. She was not here to be comforted or to indulge in her own emotions. “I came to speak to you, however. Will you walk with me so we can discuss matters?”

Jeritza inclined his head and stepped across the threshold, shutting the door lightly behind him. They proceeded across the gated courtyard. The relative seclusion of the knight’s dormitories was one of the main reasons Jeritza had insisted on being given his old rooms.

“As it happens, Hubert told me he suspected you were doing poorly. I have brought you our entire list of reports. You can select whichever appeals the most to you.” She handed him the leaflets, feeling self-conscious at the heft of the documents – each representing another failure to obtain the elusive peace that she had asked so many to pay for in blood and bereavement. 

He took them without comment, reading each with thoughtful attentiveness. As he read, she asked him, “Do you think the Professor is ready for your absence?”

Not looking up, he said, “I am unsure, but we shall have to depend on her resilience. The Death Knight will not tolerate his dormancy much longer.”

She wasn’t sure who she was more concerned about. “Perhaps we can have someone stay with her. I was thinking of Mercedes.” 

“Perhaps.” It was with discernible effort that he kept his tone neutral. “von Vestra may be a better choice, however. He is pathologically capable of putting his emotions aside in fraught circumstances, and he would not baulk should she require an authoritative presence.”

“You trust Hubert after all.” Edelgard could not keep the smug amusement from her voice.

He ignored her with a stiff resolve that served only to entertain her more. “I note that Hurwolf is not in any of these reports.”

Her amusement dissipated. “No. We need to gather more intelligence. I want to destroy he and his ilk properly. If we eliminate him and fail to be thorough, we may find another figurehead appear in his absence.”

“A many-headed snake.” Jeritza’s face became harsh and set as he resumed reading. 

Finally, he indicated one of the shorter reports. “I will see to this, if Your Majesty finds it acceptable.”

She saw with surprise that it was not a group of bandits or a rebellious noble and his followers, but a bounty for an unidentified criminal. He had used war time as a cover for brutal killings – typically assaulting isolated farming families at night, leaving nothing to find but the cindered remains of what once had been the simple, peaceful life of a farmer and his family. 

“I have no objection, but is that sufficient for the Death Knight’s needs? He only has one man to find and kill.” 

Jeritza’s mouth twisted. “He relishes the hunt as much as he revels in the slaughter. If I suspected that he would return unsatiated, I would not have selected this mission. I have always made it clear to you that I cannot make guarantees of the Death Knight, but I hope I have made it equally clear that I would not deliberately put those under your watch at risk if I can help it.” 

“You misunderstand me. I trust your judgement.” Her voice was pained. “I was asking about your well-being…For both of you.”

“You sound almost as though you care for him.” Jeritza sounded disgusted.

She nodded, unperturbed. “I do, in fact. I owe him a great deal, and he has yet to harm any of those I have asked him not to.”

Jeritza clutched the document in his hand, the rigidity in his body wrinkling the parchment. “I forget you are one of the few he condescends to speak with. That he answers to your call has always confused me.” 

“I have found him to be quite receptive to a transactional approach.”

Jeritza exhaled in a single laugh, the sound devoid of joy or mirth. “Yes, an eye for an eye. That is his only guiding moral, if indeed it is one.”

“Hm. I wonder if it is possible that you miscalculate his true nature. When I first approached him, I was still almost a child – a figurehead with the title of Princess, but little true power to speak of.”

“He exists within me. It seems unlikely that you would understand his ‘true nature’ better than I. Take more care. We swear loyalty to no one – he will not, and thus I cannot. Do not mistake him for anyone but a demon who thirsts for blood and bares his fangs indiscriminately.”

“My opinions on the matter are unchanged. As always, however, I appreciate your candor and your assistance. You have always been one of my most valued allies.” 

Jeritza made no reply, his bloodshot eyes scanning the grounds listlessly as he folded and pocketed the document. 

“Try to get some sleep before you depart. I will speak to Hubert of the arrangements. You may deploy as soon as you have made your preparations.”

Jeritza had already begun to walk away, but she heard a soft “thank you” from over the shoulder of his retreating form.


	12. Chapter 12

When she woke, she sensed she was being surveyed by what she knew should have been a familiar gaze. She did not know the people around her, yet there was always something specific about their appearance or countenance that her mind seemed to recognize. A brief wave of happiness would wash over her, yet she could never discern the source of the familiarity or pleasure. The curious sensation had initially been sparked by Jeritza’s somber voice, then the light blue hair of Caspar. Now, it had been generated by this man’s eyes - intelligent, narrowed, and pale green, one eye partially covered by his raven black hair. It put her mind of a bird of prey.

“Greetings, Professor.” The man neither ceased nor apologized for his close scrutiny of her. “You are much improved from the last time I saw you.” 

Yes. He had been the one to find her, naked and dirty in a cage. She closed her eyes and concentrated on controlling the bile rising within her throat.

The man exhaled softly. “Of course, that was a careless reminder.” He stood and began casually rummaging through cupboards and shelves, finally locating the tea leaves and mugs. She stood up herself, hugging a heavy blanket around her shoulders. The wind was howling against the panes of the window, the cold abated by an inviting fire, freshly stoked. She watched him, anxiously wondering whether Jeritza would be angry if he knew this man was searching through his possessions. 

“Feh. The man is truly ridiculous. Every single one of these is a fruit blend, and not a coffee bean in sight.” He turned to face her, holding one of the offending packages. “Honeyed-fruit blend,” he said slowly in incredulous disgust, as though he had found rancid meat. 

It was the first time she could remember laughing. She didn’t know how she felt about it. A small smile played around the man’s lips as she did, though, which was reassuring. He selected a blend and set about preparing tea. 

She trusted her sense of familiarity around him, but the moment of open amusement had made her feel apprehensive. “Where is he?” 

“Jeritza didn’t tell you himself? Hm. I shall ask him to be more considerate in future.”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t,” she said quickly. The man raised a brow but didn’t argue. 

“He had to depart from the monastery. I am not certain how long he will need to complete his task, but he will return as soon as he is finished.” 

“Why? What is he doing?” The man filled a kettle and placed it on a hook over the fire. He sat in one of the armchairs next to the fire, inviting her with a gesture to do the same. She sat hesitantly on the edge of her chair. 

“He is hunting a criminal.” He eyed her over steepled fingers, evidently deciding how much to divulge. “I gather he has not told you that he needs to perform such tasks periodically. Once a week or so is the current arrangement.”

She curled in on herself. She had decided Jeritza was safe, but in his absence, she was unsure of who to trust, where to go, what to do. 

The man was perceptive. “You needn’t worry. He requested that I be here when he is not, if that is amenable to you. I will see that you do not come to any harm.” 

She nodded, but her unease remained. The kettle began to boil; he stood to remove it from the flames and then set it on the low table between them. He brought the bags of tea leaves and placed them in the mugs. Steam curled upwards in thin tendrils as he poured water over the leaves. The sweet floral scent rising from the mugs comforting and familiar.

As the tea steeped, the man sat back and picked up a sheaf of parchment and quill that she had not noticed before. There was something about the efficient movement of his quill as he rapidly wrote replies to each document that sparked another surge of recognition from within her. 

Bracing herself, she ventured, “How did we know each other? From… before?” 

The quill halted in its tidy procession across the page. “I have been behaving reprehensibly,” the man hissed. She shied away from his anger. “No, you misunderstand. I forgot that your memory is still very limited. I should have introduced myself at the beginning.”

Despite his sudden frustration, he squared his shoulders with unmistakable pride and made a small bow. “I am Hubert von Vestra. I serve the Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg. As for how we knew each other, you were likewise an advisor and general under Her Majesty. We worked quite closely with one another for a number of years. An honor.” He nodded at her almost deferentially. She found she hated it. 

He removed both of the tea bags from their mugs and placed one into her hands. She clutched it tightly, enjoying the luxury of the warm ceramic against her skin. 

“In any case, I am glad of this opportunity to speak to you. Are you comfortable with your arrangements here?”

“Yes. I’m feeling much better.” 

“More importantly, I wanted to ask you about Jeritza. Are you at ease when he is with you?”

“Yes.” For once, she felt sure of her feelings. 

“Good.” He paused. “It is my responsibility to be watchful and vigilant of those in the monastery. I have observed some limited interaction between you. It would seem to me that you are quite subservient towards him. I hope he is not compelling this subservience from you?” He watched her attentively as he spoke.

She averted her gaze, examining the mug in her hands. “No, he doesn’t truly compel me to do anything.” Hubert waited, apparently expecting further explanation. She looked at Hubert anxiously. “He feels safe.”

“Hmm. I suppose that must do for now.” He sipped his tea and grimaced. “Disgusting. This is like drinking perfume.” Setting aside his tea and returning his attention to her, he said, “Before we speak of easier matters, I wish to make you aware that I am highly invested in your well-being. Both the Empire and myself remain very much in debt to you. Simply put, if Jeritza, or anyone else, makes you feel unhappy or uncomfortable, you need only tell me so. I will annihilate any source of your suffering with exquisite pleasure.” 

She stared at him for an interminable length of time. Finally, she said, “I remember you.” Unbidden, words came to her. “Your compliments are like a snake singing an aria.”

Hubert tipped his head back to chuckle. “You must have done a fair bit of lurking yourself, Professor; that was a private remark made to me by a mutual acquaintance.”

The mood in the room lightened. He brought her a package filled with oddities, explaining that he thought the items might help her remember her previous life, promising to bring her more should she request it. He resumed his letter-writing, giving her much-appreciated privacy as she examined the contents with curiosity. She found various rings with magical properties, ancient coins, various blends of tea, a heavily marked calendar.

The most useful item she found was a leather-bound notebook, which she determined with further perusal to be a roster. It detailed missions, outlined the results of battles, and most helpfully in her current situation, listed and described each individual who had -incredibly, it seemed to her - been under her command. Covertly, she located her notes on Hubert. Adept at dark magic and reason. His likes apparently included irony, coffee, intelligence, and “useful people.” She also found the green-haired healer she had met in the infirmary, who was called Linhardt and appreciated sleeping in, midday naps, reading, fishing, sweets, and freedom. She noted with surprise that she was smiling.

She had intended to search for her own notes on Jeritza next, but her interest started to become unfocused and hazy as the crackling warmth of the fire and the calm, rhythmic scratching of Hubert’s quill pacified her into a calm and content sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Jeritza believed that Achlys was the closest thing to a companion that the Death Knight would ever care to have, but that did not mean his mount’s regard extended to Jeritza himself. He did not know how the horse sensed the boundaries between himself and the Death Knight, but she was so keenly aware of them both that he could rely on her excited body language to predict the Death Knight’s impending arrivals.

Achlys had entered his life as the result of a unilateral purchase made in early days of the Death Knight – an expenditure that had taken years for Jeritza to recover financially from. Through spending time with the horse (which entailed all manner of being bitten, knocked over, and even the occasional spiteful kick), he had realized it was not simply the massive size or boundless stamina of the horse that had attracted the Death Knight’s attention; it was her sheer vindictiveness. She was utterly fearless, as eager to charge into slaughter and battle as the Death Knight himself. It mattered not that it was Jeritza who groomed and fed her; the war horse seemed to think of this simply as her earned due – another similarity she shared with his less pleasant counterpart. The only time she was anything short of malevolent with Jeritza was when he himself was engaged in battle.

He tightened his grip on her reins as he rode through the market at the entry of the monastery; at the sight of the guards, her ears turned back and she began swishing her tail – signs of foreboding he well recognized. The guards, not realizing the true threat was the mount upon which he rode, tried to hide their cowering from him. He was bemused until he remembered with annoyance that he had neglected to remove the Death Knight’s armor before entering the monastery. 

Both horse and man feeling sore, exhausted, and ill-tempered, he steered her to the stables and directed her to their stall, narrowly preventing an unprovoked kick at gentle Dorte as they went. In the relative privacy of the stall, he dismounted and began the tedious process of de-armoring them both. 

He had removed all of Achlys’s armor and was halfway through unbuckling his second pauldron when he heard footsteps approach. He glanced up to see Hubert striding towards him, Violet drifting in his wake. 

“Three days.” Hubert’s voice was as its highest echelon of ominous silkiness. “A mission once a week seems rather indulgent if they take you so long to complete.”

“It took time to identify the man.” Jeritza grunted and let his pauldron fall, the metal making a satisfyingly obnoxious sound against the stone. Though Achlys remained as composed as ever, he berated himself as the Professor flinched. He leaned against the entryway of the stall, folding his arms. “Perhaps we can finish this discussion later in a more private environment.” 

There was nothing sincere in Hubert’s cold smile. He spoke in an undertone so only Jeritza heard. “Of course. I merely wanted to make you aware that the nights you are gone are sleepless and difficult. Take better care of your responsibilities.” He swept out of the stall before turning back mid-stride. “And perhaps next mission you will extend her the courtesy of informing her prior to your departure.” He gave an ironic little bow before finally departing. 

Jeritza turned back to Achlys to find the Professor approaching his horse.

“Watch yourself –“ His warning sharp warning trailed away as the Professor advanced towards her from the side, avoiding the horse’s blind spots and blowing air into her nostrils. Achlys responded in-kind, ears turned politely towards her. Perhaps Achlys had reached a new mutinous low and was recruiting fellow agitators. 

“She’s beautiful,” Violet breathed. Curious about the new relationship burgeoning between two of his most baffling companions, he handed her a currycomb and stiff brush. It was clear that she had groomed many horses before; she started with the neck, taking care to make her movements fluid as she loosened the caked mud. He approached Achlys’s other side and began grooming, too. 

“Hubert told me that the past few days have been difficult on you.”

“Not particularly.” She moved to Achlys’s flank. “I’m more bored than anything else. It’s just sleeping that’s difficult.” It seemed easier for her to talk when given a task, he noted – a trait they shared.

“The boredom is solved easily enough,” he mused. “We can start focusing on your training, and there are various activities I’ve seen you enjoy in the past. Fishing, gardening, reading.” She nodded, and with a strange sense of pride, he realized that she looked quite content. “Sleep doesn’t come easily to me, either, but perhaps we can find some strategies for dealing with that, too.” 

~~~

Night had fallen on the grounds, and the monastery was still. They were in his quarters, both dressed for the night and lounging in the armchairs next to the fire. Jeritza leafed absently through a manuscript he had gleaned from the library, reviewing the day’s events in his mind. 

They had made use of the monastery bulletin, using it as a sort of to-do list. First, they made a short supply run to the market for Hubert. Since the Professor still seemed reluctant to engage with others beside himself, Jeritza forced himself to haggle with merchants while she hovered behind him. Spending time with Hubert in his absence had done some good, however, as she seemed more willing to voice her thoughts and opinions as the day progressed. Following their journey to the market, they caught several fish for the dining hall – or rather, the professor had brought in the day’s catches, as Jeritza himself was completely incompetent when it came to fishing. She had then watched as he fought in the lance tournament, and when everyone else had cleared the arena, they practiced with wooden swords. She was far too hesitant and timid to be a truly able opponent, but he was pleased that she participated at all. Regardless of her performance, being in the arena with her served as a balm to his aching heart. 

Overall, it had been a productive day, and Jeritza was glad to find he felt properly tired. His statement to the Professor about sleep not coming easily to him was something of an understatement. It was a constant battle, a perpetual quest to punish his body to the point of exhaustion. Tonight, he felt he had won this battle - his body was sore, aching from his mission and the events of the day.

He yawned and stretched. “I think I’ll go sleep. You should do the same, Professor.”

She nodded, though he noted she seemed to be holding her tongue.

“Hm?” he prodded. 

“I was just wondering why you had to leave for three days.” Her face shifted to an anxious expression. “Not that it’s any of my business. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked - ” 

“No, that’s quite alright.”. He didn’t blame her for her submissive countenance, but he was missing Byleth and he didn’t think he could bear more self-deprecation. It made him feel like re-saddling Achlys and riding to Nuvelle that very moment to liberate Hurwolf from his own limbs. There would be a time for that, but even the Death Knight knew that it must wait. The insurrection was a many-headed dragon, and he would not be content with slicing off only one of its heads. “The Empire had some business for me to take care of. Her Majesty reinstated me as a general a few days ago, so it’s my duty to deploy where and when she thinks it necessary.”

They both stared into the fire for a long moment, the Professor appearing dissatisfied with his answer. Though she didn’t say as much, he suspected that she was as adept a tactician as she had ever been. After all, this meek self Byleth had created to survive Hurwolf could be taken as proof of that, in a way. He chided himself for not being more forthright – few people had more right than she did to know of his true nature. Indeed, he had not even told her of her own nature – that they were both split between two personas, fated to never be truly whole of spirit again.

No. He could not do this tonight, when his body and mind were so weary and when she seemed to feel almost content. He stood. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He returned her tentative smile with one of his own, his own face feeling peculiar at the forced expression. 

He entered his bedroom and collapsed on the bed with a groan of relief, blowing out the candle and falling almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

~~~

Despite his exhaustion, he woke up at the first muffled cry. His sore muscles protested as he tore himself out of bed and rushed into the sitting room.

The professor was thrashing in her bed, her face pale and agitated. Not wanting a man towering over her bed to be the first thing she saw upon waking, he knelt next to her bed. “Professor – Violet - wake up. It is merely a dream.” 

Though his words had been quiet, she woke immediately, her mouth open mid-gasp. He could see a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. He moved slow, giving her ample opportunity to withdraw, before he grasped her hand. It felt cold beneath his own. 

“You are safe.” 

She sat up, placing her back against the wall so she could curl up and face him at the same time, but she didn’t let go of his hand. 

He sat next to her on the bed, careful not to touch her but to sit close enough that she could lean against him if she wanted to, which she did. It was only when she did so that he realized how ragged and shallow her breaths were; her ability to hide her emotions was apparently as proficient as ever. He took care to make his own breath steady and deep, a cue for her to follow. He rubbed slow, gentle circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

It took some time, but eventually her breathing fell into step with his own. She rested her head against his chest. 

“Do you wish to speak of it?”

He felt her shake her head against his chest. “It’s enough that you’re here.”

Something about the tone and cadence of her words made him want to tip her head back so he could look at her face. He thought if he did, he might see Byleth’s eyes looking back at him. It was almost certainly his own irrational brand of besotted hope, and only with effort did he manage to quell it. 

He ventured putting his arms around her, trying not to acknowledge the traitorous flutter his heart gave when she relaxed rather than withdrew. He held her until a peaceful sleep claimed them both.


	14. Chapter 14

Jeritza sat in his armchair next to the fire, now reduced to glowing embers. The clouded moon cast soft light on Achlys’s tack as he worked. He stole occasional glances at the Violet. So far, it was looking like her first nightmare-free sleep. Alas, he was not quite so lucky; tonight would almost certainly be sleepless for him. 

Finally, they had begun to settle into a routine. Meals were strategically planned so that they had to interact with as few people as possible. Even when they shared the dining hall with other members of the Black Eagles, Jeritza noticed that they kept their greetings short and seated themselves far away from the pair. He wondered whether this was due to being intimidated by him, or if they were uncomfortable with the professor’s new persona. Unbeknownst to him, the cause of their reticence was due to neither of these reasons, but rather Hubert’s instructions to give them space as they settled in. 

Mornings were reserved for training. Jeritza had been pleasantly surprised to note the enthusiasm the Professor had started to approach the arena with. In contrast to the dining hall, she was even able to interact with several of her former students there, becoming almost as comfortable with Felix and Caspar as she was with Hubert and Jeritza himself. He supposed Byleth had always been more open around when there were few people present or when she had a sword in her hand, and as her counterpart, Violet was no different. 

Afternoons and evenings found them fishing, perusing the library, or riding. For now, Violet had been taking Dorte, though Jeritza planned to remedy that soon. He would stop by a few stables on his next mission. 

Their routine was enjoyable if somewhat dull, and he savored the small signs of progress that punctuated each day. Even so, her increasingly frequent victories in the arena and casual interactions with her former students were offset by periods of long silences, during which she seemed withdrawn and troubled, all but ignoring him. She was still startled by unexpected touches, even if it was innocent as someone brushing her shoulder in the market as they hurried by. 

The nights were by far the most difficult. Jeritza had gleaned some of the horrors of her experiences from the pleas she made while thrashing around in her sleep. Night after night, he had woken to her terrified screams. Night after night, he had held her until her breath became calm once again, even as he fought with the Death Knight within him, his wrath rumbling over Jeritza’s own thoughts like a gathering thunderstorm. It was an exhausting struggle, kept barely under control by the weekly excursions given to the Death Knight.

Jeritza was also troubled by the Death Knight’s increasing restlessness. The life of simple routine only aggravated his need to hunt, dominate, kill. Violet’s submissiveness seemed to feed into the Death Knight as nothing else ever had. The bloodthirst was almost unbearable, oozing into Jeritza’s daily consciousness like a spreading infection. It had reached such a pitch that it eclipsed his own hunger and thirst, something that had not happened since the Death Knight first appeared. Were it not for the need to accompany the professor to the dining hall each day, he knew he would forget to eat. Of even greater concern, though, was the flickers of savage possessiveness he felt when others spoke to Violet. Nevertheless, he could at least enjoy this peaceful if sleepless night; at least she seemed to feel safe. That must be enough for him.


	15. Chapter 15

Violet was not sure what had woken her up until she saw Jeritza. He stood in the middle of the room, his body still as he regarded her. 

She sat up, trying to avert her gaze even as she searched his stance for the source of the hostility that cut through the room like a chill wind. 

When no words or information were forthcoming, she risked glancing up at him. Moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face and making his fair hair look almost white. Though she could not read any emotion there, his eyes were not their typical shade of grey ice. They appeared violet, though she doubted her own vision. 

“Jeritza…?” She gripped the blanket tightly around her fists, trying to hide her trembling fingers. 

**“That is not my name.”** She could not look away from the man’s face. He exuded power, and she was transfixed by it. **“Stand,”** he commanded. 

She did as she was told. He took a step towards her, standing so close to her that she could hear him breathe. **“You called us Master.”** His altered countenance and speech suddenly coalesced into something familiar to her, and she realized she was not the only one to harbor more than one person in her mind. 

“Y-Yes, I did. But then he told me to call you by his name… Jeritza,” she whispered.

 **“Mhmm. We both know that is merely an indulgence for his sake.”** He lifted his hand and slowly ran one of his long fingers down her face, the expanse of her exposed neck, her jugular vein. **“So much the better that he is too weak to admit it. I am your Master.”**

“Yes,” she breathed. 

**“When you are Byleth, we are equal only to each other in power. Odd that my counterpart should create my need to overpower, and that yours should create a persona that seems to crave domination.”** His finger stopped at her collar bone. **“I wonder… how it would feel to slay you right now.”** He extended his other fingers, his large hand encompassing her neck from collarbone to collarbone, though he applied no force. **“To watch your fearful struggle until you breathed your last.”**

She noted with a sense of detachment that she was unafraid. This man would do what he wished to her, and she was powerless to resist. This truth seemed to eclipse such trivialities as her fear. 

His other hand rose to the back of her head and grabbed a fistful of her hair. His grip was unrelenting but not painful as he tipped her head back, further exposing her vulnerable neck. **“Or perhaps I should take your body right here instead.”**

For the first time in this encounter, she wanted to flee. Though she tried to hide it, he seemed to feel her shudder of disgust, for he gave a low growl. **“If I slay you, it will be when you are facing me as Byleth, holding your sword and at the height of your power and strength... If I take your body, it will be because you will be begging for me to do so, screaming in desperation for more.”**

She whimpered, though not entirely from fear, and the corners of his mouth lifted as he tilted his head, seeming to savor the sound. He released his hold on her, and she ran. 

~~~

The night became cloudless, and the full moon’s light woke Jeritza. He was still sitting in his armchair, tack lying forgotten as his feet. He was surprised that he had slept at all. He stood and moved to close the curtain, afraid that the bright light might wake his charge, too.

That was when he noticed she was gone.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, a cold fear washing over him. Terror only ever helped him achieve his ends, however, and he allowed it free reign as he slipped on his overtunic and cloak, grabbing a sword as he rushed out of their quarters. 

He grabbed the closest guard by the upper arm, who gave a startled cry of pain. 

“You,” he snarled. “The Professor is gone from our quarters. Have you turned traitor and given her location away or are you just feckless?”

The guard whimpered as Jeritza applied pressure, trying to speed up the man’s response. “S-She left on her own - she said she was just going for a walk - ”

Not deigning to respond, he released the guard with a shove.

He felt only slightly calmer. He forced himself to think rationally. Where would she go? Suddenly, as if from a different life, he recalled a sunlit conversation they had over tea. He could not ever recall having a conversation with someone who could speak of battle in the same easy tone that they spoke of sweets and cats. He had found himself able to respond in kind, and they had spoken of idle, sentimental things for far longer than was seemly for two generals in the midst of wartime. His mind lingered on the discovery that they had shared their favorite view from the grounds. His shoulders relaxed as he changed course. 

He found her sitting on the parapet overlooking the cemetery, gazing at the stars set into the sky. Jeritza could see his breath freeze in front of his face before it dissipated. Her feet were bare and she was clad in nothing but one of his tunics. He could only see her small silhouette framed against the moon. It was not the first time her appearance had seemed too unnatural, too serene, too beautiful for their surroundings - her presence had always seemed to render everything else mundane and banal by comparison. 

“There you are,” he said, but she didn’t make a move to reply. “I’d prefer you to tell me when and where you’re going. I was…troubled by your absence.” 

She turned her head slightly, but her expression was unreadable. “Those sound more like commands than preferences to me.” 

“Ah. There you are,” he repeated softly, but the words held an entirely different meaning. His pulse quickened with hope as he approached her.

He reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. Her whole body tensed and he aborted the effort, feeling reprehensible. 

“Do you… Are you able to remember the other one? Your counterpart?” She turned her head fully toward him, but still her face revealed nothing. He sighed. He despised this moment. Resented himself. Wished he could unravel time and change the circumstances. But he knew he owed it to her to peel back his disguise and reveal himself fully. If he wanted to know of her demons, it could only be fair to show her his. 

“I find I am sometimes sentient, in a sense, when the Death Knight wields my body. I watch him, a powerless bystander. Other times… Other times, I wake up with no memory of him or his behavior.” He broke his gaze and they both looked up at the moon. “I still do not know which I prefer.” 

“Nor do I.” They sat in silence for some moments, leaving Jeritza to ponder the inference. Suddenly, she burst out, “I hate her. Witnessing my degradation by my own hands, soliciting domination like a collared mutt.” Despite the cold, her face flushed with shame.

“Stop.” His voice sounded harsher than he had intended, but he made no attempt to lighten his tone. “I won’t tolerate you speaking of yourself in that manner. You survived, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for any part of you that helped accomplish that.” She gave a derisive snort. “Do not doubt my sincerity, Byleth. I thank your counterpart for emerging, because she helped you live. It is to her that I owe your presence in front of me... I am grateful. Do not insult her thus.”

“You expect me to believe that?” The bitterness behind her words was a tangible thing. “Do you remember the night in the Goddess Tower? I offered to share my life with you. My love wasn’t enough then. I understood that. But now I’m some fucking charity quest, here you are. I thought you left because the Death Knight had an insatiable desire to vanquish me, and yet here I am, unscathed. Why do you think that is? Maybe because he feels like he owns me now?”

“Byleth… “ It was the voice of a coward, he knew. A coward who had no defense against the truth of her words. 

“All those empty vows you made about following me to the very depths of hell – where were you when I was actually there? At first, I used to imagine you or the Death Knight breaking down the castle walls and slaying Hurwolf and everyone else who stood in my way. It gave me hope while I was in a windowless cell with nothing to look forward to but the next time Lord Hurwolf sent for me.”

His tongue was leaden. He was unused to speaking to people at length even in the most mundane and inconsequential of circumstances. Wrath and hatred were welling up inside of him, and he did not know whether it was toward Hurwolf or himself. 

“You know, I can actually recall when I first left myself. It was the moment I realized you hadn’t found me because you weren’t even looking.”

There was nothing to be said, Jeritza knew. He recalled the day he had approached his mother, told her to take Mercedes and flee, to leave him at House Bartels. She had refused to leave him, at first, but the bruises and tears shining on her face had lent him strength as he repeated, over and over, that he could not - would not - accompany them. He had known, even at eight years of age, that it would result in Bartels hunting them down. As Count Bartels’s own heir, and the possessor of a Crest, he would have been recaptured and returned to the estate. His mother and Mercedes had no such safeguards in place, however, and he had known that his father would slaughter them for humiliating his bloated sense of pride. Even so, his resentment toward his mother and sister existed on a primal level that defied logic. Even though their departure had been his idea, even though he would not change it even if he could, nothing could fully cleanse him of his bitterness. From the very afternoon they had departed, he had suffered every wound and degradation alone. His only bulwark had been the knowledge that he endured so that his mother and sister could be free. Byleth too had suffered atrocities, but for no gain, no purpose. 

Byleth’s body relaxed with resignation and exhaustion, and the sudden absence of her previous hostility made her next words all the more painful. “Leave. I’m sure the other one will come crawling back to you. You seem to have her well-trained. As for me, I want nothing to do with you.” 

He had left her to keep her safe, but what did his intentions matter in the face of such an outcome? How deep must her resentment towards his abandonment of her be when it was so well-deserved? 

He paused for a long moment before removing his cloak and putting it over her shoulders. She ignored both man and cloak. He stole one last glance at her, then walked away.


	16. Chapter 16

Byleth watched the moon begin to sink. Tepid pre-dawn light was beginning to illuminate the grounds, though the mountainous range below remained ink-black with darkness. She rubbed a palm over her own heart as she watched two ravens circling in the sky, calling out to one another.

Her alternate persona could have arranged a better time to withdraw; for instance, when she was dressed a little more warmly. She fumbled with Jeritza’s lined cloak, her numb fingers unresponsive as she fastened the clasp at the neck. She stood, contemplating what she should do next. Returning to Jeritza’s quarters was out of the question – quite apart from undermining herself, she was fairly certain that if she had to talk to him again just then, she’d make an even greater fool of herself. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hurl insults and fists in his face or sink to her knees and plead for forgiveness. More concerning still, neither impulse made sense. 

Her eyes fell upon Jeralt’s grave. The sight seemed to clear her mind, even if she had to tell herself not to think about what her father would say if he saw her now. Broken. Weak.

Assuming the routine operation of Garreg Mach was still similar to that of a year ago, all of the common areas would be locked, under guard, or both. She thought of her old room. Would it have been kept for her, or would someone else have claimed it by now? 

She strode across the grounds with a stiff resolve, determined not to appear as though she was a small child who had gotten lost at the market, as her bare feet and overlarge tunic would no doubt suggest.

What had possessed Edelgard to involve Jeritza in this? What in the Goddess’s name had possessed her? Her cheeks burned as she thought of the previous night – Jeritza’s powerful arms holding her, his hand holding hers, helping her breathe; and the Death Knight, his hand around her neck as he ensnared her with his unsettling words. Equally disquieting was the way that her recent memories felt filtered – not entirely her own. It was this thing inside her, this weaker side that had taken over her body.

She froze for a moment as footsteps echoed across the cobbled stones of the main path. Her own steps became hurried as she hastened to cross the courtyard towards the dormitories. Too focused on keeping her eyes fixed on the direction of the sound, she stumbled into a crate of smithing stones. Stones grated against each other as they collided with the cobbled path. The sound seemed thunderous in the perfect quiet of the pre-dawn monastery. 

Her body felt rooted to the spot. Stop this, she chastised herself. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Even so, she flattened herself against the wall, expecting to see Hurwolf’s malicious form round the corner. She could almost feel his venomous leer, his heavy breaths - 

“It looks as though my assistance is required.” There was faint exasperation in Linhardt’s voice. Byleth’s shoulders relaxed as she turned to face him.

“Oh. I didn’t realize it was you, Professor.” He blinked at her, taking in her paltry outfit and bare feet. “What are you doing here? Where is Jeritza?” 

She bent to pick up the stones, though for some reason she couldn’t explain, she didn’t want to turn her back on Linhardt. He took the stones from her hands and tossed them into the crate. “Don’t worry about the rest. As your healer, I insist we take you somewhere warm. Which also gives me an excellent excuse not to pick this up.”

He started to lead her back towards the knight’s hall and Jeritza’s quarters. This finally spurred her into speech. “I don’t want to go to Jeritza’s room.”

Linhardt paused, his brow furrowed. “Did something happen?”

“It’s nothing. I’d just rather stay in my own room.”

Linhardt tilted his head. After a further pause, he said, “You seem… more like yourself.” It seemed to be more question than statement. 

“Yes.” Before he could ask anything else, she asked, “Is someone staying in my old room?” 

“No, as it happens. Edelgard has never changed the room.” He turned and together they resumed her path towards the dormitories. “She always believed you’d return.”

“Why didn’t anyone look for me?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, even as her jaw clenched.

“Well, we did at first. I don’t think Hubert ever really stopped looking for you, in his own way… in the end, we thought you left on your own. None of us even considered that you might have been taken.” 

She turned her face away, shielding her expression. Of course they hadn’t considered the truth. Of course they wouldn’t have believed her capable of being so weak, so feeble.

Linhardt seemed to hear her thoughts. “We are the ones who failed you, not the other way around.” He sighed. “It was just after the Final Battle, and you left the Sword of the Creator behind. I felt sure it was your way of saying you needed to move on. No one blamed you – your whole life had been dedicated to our cause for so long. In hindsight, we were fools.” 

They mounted the steps to her old room, the aged wood creaking beneath their feet. He took a keyring from his belt and opened the door for her. He was right – the room had been kept just the same, down to the books on the nightstand and the papers on her bulletin. 

She put her hand on her hip and surveyed the remains of her old life. All of it felt like a lie, a fantasy.

She had almost forgotten about Linhardt, who was watching her from the doorway, hands in his pockets. “This must be difficult.” 

She didn’t like the way it felt, to have one of her students supporting her instead of the other way around. But something about his soft words – offering understanding, but without pity or pressure – seemed to create an opening within her. “This…almost seems harder than being with Hurwolf.” Her breath hitched as she spoke his name.

She expected confusion – after all, she herself was almost overwhelmed by her own bewilderment, but Linhardt nodded. “I had wondered about that. After a year of being focused on nothing more or less than surviving each day, I’m sure I’d find sudden freedom very complicated.”

She found herself running her fingers over her dusty old possessions, as though expecting to find some elusive answer simply by touching what was once hers. She found no sense of possession; it was as though she was snooping through someone else’s belongings, someone else’s life. 

Linhardt continued to watch her, but for the moment she found his presence companionable rather than intrusive. 

Finally, he repeated his earlier query. “Did something happen with Jeritza?” 

“No.” She shelved the book she was holding with more force than was strictly necessary. Seeing Linhardt’s concerned expression, she relaxed. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

She knew that the things she had said to Jeritza were unfair, but the anger she felt towards him would not be so easily tamed. She knew she should even feel grateful to him for nursing her back into health, for being a gentle companion to her other self – and yet this felt like the most significant betrayal of all. The man she had spent so long training with and fighting beside was now coddling her. In this new life, the only warrior she had depended on to be as ruthless and powerful as herself now spoke softly to her, held her while she trembled in terror at nightmares. Though it had angered her, the claim that the Death Knight had seemed to stake on her was something she could at least understand and perhaps even forgive. The tenderness that Jeritza had shown her… well. 

She suddenly realized her teeth were clenched; her fists curled tight. She took a deep breath and forced herself, again, to relax. She felt no better for it. She had never felt enslaved to her emotions, a subject of their whim. Until now, at least.

She folded her arms and looked up at the healer. “Thank you for assisting me, Linhardt.” 

As she’d hoped, he caught the dismissal and nodded, though his brow was still furrowed. “Come see me when you feel up to it. There’s no reason to suffer alone.” She nodded and he made his retreat, closing the door lightly behind him.


	17. Chapter 17

Lone Moon

Even though the snow had melted entirely, the grounds were still wet from the thaw and what felt like a continuous rain storm. The infirmary was quiet save the sounds of the storm beating against the window panes and the low, indistinct muttering of Linhardt from behind the closed door of a patient’s room. Byleth pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes, taking some comfort in the pattering of raindrops against the glass. 

The past week had been almost unbearable. Though she tried to employ Jeritza’s strategy of avoiding the dining hall at usual meal times and keeping to herself as much as possible, the news that “Byleth was feeling herself again,” had spread across the grounds like an archery gambit, and everyone seemed keen to converse with her, clearly expecting her to respond as she would have a year ago. 

Quite apart from not wanting to talk to or even look anyone in the eyes, it was an exhausting effort of will to affect a response that no longer felt like her own. She simply…existed, drifting from day to day. 

The door behind her opened and Linhardt strolled into the sitting area, his tomes slung over his back as usual. 

“Hello, Professor.” If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t let on. “Let’s go to my office.” She followed him, and he showed her into a cozy room. She took note of all the creature comforts he had surrounded himself with: the chairs in this room were selected for comfort rather than aesthetic, each furnished with overstuffed cushions and plush pillows. The room smelled of chalk and old books. She thought she recognized Bernadetta’s handiwork in the serene paintings hanging on the wall. 

Instead of sitting behind his desk, he sat in one of the armchairs and gestured for her to do the same. She sank into the nearest chair and forced herself to look at him. Even the simplest things seemed so difficult now. 

“How are you?” His voice was soft.

She opened her mouth before closing it again. She wondered why she bothered coming here. What was there to say? 

She realized she was staring blankly at the wall behind his head. “I don’t know.” She tried to find words to describe the hollowness in her core. 

Linhardt leaned towards her. “I can’t promise a cure or even that I completely understand, but there are strategies to manage it.” 

She continued to gaze at the wall, not trusting herself to look at him. No, he didn’t remotely understand. Jeritza was the only one person who could truly claim that, but… 

“I think you could start by telling me – “

“Goddess damn it, Hubert! You should have told me you took poison damage from that axe!” 

“How could I have known the bloody antidote didn’t work?”

“You would have, if you would care enough to check your own wounds!” 

The door to the office burst open to reveal Ferdinand, Hubert’s arm hoisted over his shoulder. Both men were drenched, their clothes dripping muddy water onto the polished floor. Hubert’s face had taken on the hue of spoiled milk. His unsupported arm clutched at his torso. It looked as though he was bleeding, but the blood oozing through his bandages and covering his hand was black rather than red.

“Linhardt, please tell me there is something you can do. "We were ambushed two days ago -- Hubert insisted he was fine so we finished the mission as planned, but just now, down at the gate, he dismounted and there was blood everywhere -- “

Linhardt had already risen and crossed the room. He pushed Hubert into the nearest chair and set about loosening the bandages. Kneeling, he retrieved a small pair of scissors from the satchel at his belt and began cutting the fabric dressing away from the wound. His face paled as he peeled the last bandage away, revealing a deep, oozing gash in Hubert's midsection. The cloying smell of decay permeated the room, and Linhardt visibly recoiled.

Linhardt addressed Byleth. “Can you still perform healing magic? A basic incantation should do for now.” She nodded once and approached Hubert, already muttering the incantation. Her fingers and core tingled as she redirected her energy toward Hubert’s own life force. 

“I watched him take the antidote myself. I wrapped his wound as an extra precaution, but I thought the antidote alone should have cured it. What did I do wrong?” Ferdinand was so close to Linhardt that water from his soaked hair and clothes dripped onto the healer’s shoulder. 

“Ferdinand, please.” Hubert’s head tipped back; his face taut with pain. “Give him some space or leave the room if you must. He’s not going to accomplish anything if you hover and cluck over his shoulder like a waterlogged mother hen.” Ferdinand was about to step back before Hubert grabbed his hand. “I’m going to be fine,” he muttered. 

Ferdinand nodded before stepping away. His eyes remained fixed on Hubert’s wound, his face nearly as pale and taut as Hubert’s.

Lindhardt’s movements were swift and sure, his face betraying nothing but intense focus as he cleansed the wound, murmuring a restoring spell. His fingers stilled as his brow furrowed in confusion when the wound remained black.

That was when it dawned on her. “You need moonleaf. That’s the only antidote.”

“Ferdinand, go into the supplies room across the hall and get me the moonleaf extract. Clear bottle, middle shelf.” As Ferdinand left, Linhardt turned to her, frowning. “You’ve encountered this before?”

“One of Hurwolf’s mages made it. It’s designed to maim during battle in a way that can’t be immediately healed by magic or typical antidotes.”

Hubert managed to look intrigued in spite of the pain. “Ah… Clever.” 

She focused on watching Linhardt work, determined to force any further recollections of Hurwolf from her mind. 

Linhardt sighed as he selected a scalpel. “Some of the flesh has already begun to rot. I’m going to have to trim some of the tissue away before I close the wound. It will definitely scar, and you’ll have to rest – “ Hubert tried to sit up, but Linhardt splayed a hand across the unwounded portion of his chest to halt his progress. “No longer than a day or two… Ideally, more than that, but I’ve learned it’s less hassle to make concessions to certain stubborn patients.” 

The “stubborn patient” shook his head. “Out of the question. I have to debrief Her Majesty, to say nothing of my routine responsibilities – “

Linhardt cleared his throat. “I could always let Ferdinand and Her Majesty know that you really ought to be given total bedrest here in the infirmary for a week.” He raised a brow at Hubert, who maintained a sullen silence. “Or… I suppose I could simply tell them that you’ll need to work from your own bed for a day or two.” He shrugged. “Your choice.” 

Hubert scowled and leaned back. Linhardt massaged an anesthetic into his wound and began to carefully remove dead tissue with his scalpel.

Ferdinand hurried back into the room, clutching a small bottle. He paled as his eyes fell upon the scalpel. Linhardt checked the label before he nodded at Hubert to drink it. 

Hubert tipped his head back and drank the contents in one swallow, grimacing at the taste. 

The room was silent as Linhardt worked, save for the occasional soft hiss from Hubert. Once Linhardt removed the dead tissue, he ran a finger along the wound and murmured a sealing incantation. Fresh scar tissue began to knit itself over the wound, and Hubert’s shoulders relaxed. 

“Thank you.” He nodded to Linhardt and Byleth, his gaze lingering for a moment on her new armor. “I see you’re back with us, Professor.”

She had entered her room one evening to find the armor carefully laid on her bed. Though no note had been left, the craftsmanship was similar to that of the Scythe of Sariel – exquisite, archaic, and entirely unique. It had clearly been commissioned just for her; it clung to her almost as if it were her own skin, light and flexible. Regardless of the mass of confusion that engulfed her every time she thought of Jeritza, it certainly didn’t stop her from wearing such a masterpiece. 

She folded her arms and leaned a hip against the nearby desk. “Your mission. You must have gone to the Nuvelle Province.”

Hubert responded to her unspoken question. “Indeed. Ferdinand and I went to gather intelligence. It was not as productive as I had hoped, given that we were discovered, but we did manage to glean some information.”

She continued to look at him, arms still folded. He exchanged a glance with Ferdinand, who quickly added, “Nothing to be concerned over, just routine – “

“Stop coddling me.” The emptiness inside her seemed to take on cavernous proportions as she observed their expressions – pity, concern, pain. The hollowness was broken only by the anger germinating within her. 

After a long moment, Hubert inclined his head. “Hurwolf’s been growing an army. There’s strong evidence of an Almyran presence. If their forces have joined, we may find ourselves outmatched. We thought he merely wanted to secede Nuvelle from the Empire, but after this I suspect he wants to conquer the Empire.” 

That last meeting… Hurwolf had decided to give her up as an offering to curry favor with the Almyran king. She could feel the cold stone floor against her skin, could sense the violence that radiated from Hurwolf in waves – 

A distant voice spoke over the thrumming in her ears. The room came back into focus. Linhardt was looking at her inquiringly while Ferdinand stared at her in alarm. 

“Wh- what?” 

“Are you alright? Do you need to lie down?” 

“No. I’m fine.” She nodded to the men. “Keep me updated, Hubert,” she ordered.

Then, turning on her heel, she left the room.


	18. Chapter 18

It was the third time in a row Jeritza had defeated Felix with his first maneuver.  
“You’re too exhausted for training to be of any use to either of us. Go rest.”

Felix glowered but didn’t bother disagreeing. They had been sparring since dinner time. Jeritza had suspected he was not the only one to be using training as means of tamping down undesirable thoughts and sleeplessness. Felix’s face was gaunt and his eyes were sunken.

Felix threw his weapon down with a clatter and left the arena, slamming the heavy oaken door behind him. He had never been the same after killing Rodrigue in battle, though over a year had passed. Jeritza supposed that there might be a twisted silver lining in how hateful his own father had been; after all, he had not lost a moment of sleep over slaughtering the man who sired him. 

He unclasped his whetstone from its usual place on his belt and located some mineral oil and soft moleskin from the supplies cupboard. Jeritza thought of Scythe of Sariel almost as an extension of his own body, and indulged it with considerably better care. He was close to enjoying himself as he ran the whetstone down the length of its blade, the gentle rasp of grit against metal soothing his fraught nerves. He felt almost dizzy with the tiredness overcoming his body. Perhaps tonight he could finally rest.

He heard the wooden door creak heavily on its hinges. He turned, expecting to have to use his scythe to remind Felix that he was in such a condition as to be taken out with a single blow. Again. 

His hand froze mid-stroke on the scythe when he saw Byleth. She was wearing her new armor, the Sword of the Creator hoisted over her shoulder. Recovering himself quickly, he clasped his whetstone onto its hook on his belt and pocketed the moleskin and mineral oil. He heaved his own weapon onto his shoulder, and made to leave, taking care not to look at her, even though he had a thirst to stand before her and simply drink her appearance in. An entire year had passed since he had seen her fully prepared for battle. Truly whole. It took a great effort of will to walk past her in the entryway. 

“Stay.” 

It was a directive, devoid of emotion or desire. She didn’t look back as she walked in the arena, but it was clear he was meant to follow her. 

Had the circumstances been normal, had she been anyone else, he would have responded to the authority in her voice by doing the opposite of whatever he’d been told, or at the very least employing the most blatant means possible of disregarding the instruction. As it was, he followed her like a starving stray smelling a lifesaving scrap of food. 

She turned to face him, her entire body radiant with raw power. He felt drawn into the current of it, a piece of driftwood on a tidal wave. 

“You told me once that to know you is to know of your blade.” She readied her stance and lifted her sword. “Show me who you are, then.” 

He comprehended little of others’ emotions, but he understood the significance of this moment perfectly. She wanted to know if she was still his equal – she wanted unyielding assurance that he didn’t own her, didn’t pity her. She needed him to prove that he remained incapable either of staying his hand or dominating her, and they both knew the battlefield as a place of ruthless, uncompromising truth. 

His exhaustion evaporated, replaced with unerring clarity, all of his senses becoming sharp and pure. He could feel the Death Knight surface with the subtle hint of restraint that he showed Jeritza only when they were in true, unmanufactured danger. **I am here. I am ready. I will answer your call.**

He hadn’t been aware of lunging toward her until his scythe struck her relic weapon. He used the hooked side of the scythe to attempt to wrest the sword from her grip, his focus on forcing her sword arm to defend rather than make that graceful arc he knew so well. She leapt back, yanking her wrist in a downward curve, allowing the vertebrae of the blade to extend enough to evade his hold. He thrust the spiked tip of his scythe towards her unguarded heart, but instead of taking the defensive stance he expected, she continued the downward movement of her wrist, further extending the reach of her blade. He sprung backwards, narrowly avoiding the flash of the sword where his ankles had been just a moment before.

The battle began in earnest. Jeritza rapidly thrust his scythe at her again and again, giving her no relief, no chance to recover, and yet easily she met his every lunge, evading the tip of his halberd with swift flicks from her sword.

This was the first time they had dueled each other without holding back. It was odd to feel such quietude in the middle of the din and chaos of their weapons striking one another. Sweat dampened his hair, his breathing becoming exerted – yet he felt such… contentment. 

He took a step back and swung his scythe freely, twisting his whole body for momentum as he targeted her legs. She leapt lightly out his reach. He continued his advance, swinging his scythe with abandon as she dodged. Unlike most swordsmen he had fought, her movements were small and assured, and all the more effective for it – anticipating and blocking a dramatic movement was far easier than interrupting the subtle evasions she made now. Only when his strikes gradually became more erratic as his body reached his limits did he realize her strategy - she was allowing him to attack over and over, confident she could dodge every one of his blows. Her approach was simple and brutal, weaponizing his own intensity against him, patiently waiting for him to tire and slip to lash out with her sword again.

Finally, the moment she had been anticipating came. He swung his scythe upwards, his focus shifting as he tried to attack her head and torso. He knew extending his arms left his torso unguarded for the briefest of moments, just enough for her to pounce. She struck him across the chest, as he knew she would. He fell onto the stone floor, labored breaths wracking his body. 

She straddled him, her blade held widthwise against his chest, over his heart. It had torn through his clothes, and the white linen was rapidly blooming crimson. He felt his blood begin to run down his sides, circling his torso in a warm embrace. This peace he felt…he had not thought it possible for his mind to be so tranquil, soothed, unblemished; whole.

“This is what you want.” She wasn’t asking. Her eyes seemed to bore into him, just like the blade digging into his flesh. “To kill or be killed.” Her words held anger, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Instead of replying, he lifted his chest into her blade, deepening the wound. It was not a lethal injury, yet, but it was deep enough to scar, even with the aid of potions and magic. He lifted his hand and covered her, pressing her grip on the blade down.

He had spent years fantasizing about these very last breaths he was taking beneath her unwavering hand. Those years of fantasy hadn’t even come close to the serenity he felt now. Perhaps it was for the best that he had made her hate him – whatever he had done to bring him to this moment had surely been the right decision. 

She leaned closer to him. A hint of a floral scent registered distantly in his mind. She lifted a hand from her sword and smoothed back his hair as though he was a fevered child. Her hand felt cool and soothing against his sweaty skin and he closed his eyes.

Her lips nearly touched the shell of his ear, her words so quiet that he could almost have pretended not to hear her. 

“It will have to be the other way around, then, because your loss would break my heart.”

Before he could entirely process the meaning of her words, Jeritza felt the Death Knight rise within him, enraged. He tried in vain to tighten his hold over their body, but it was like trying to clutch water in his palm. Panic enveloped him even as his own volition slipped away. The Death Knight would suffer no argument or plea from him now.


	19. Chapter 19

In less than the space of a single breath, his face became so pallid that Byleth was afraid that she had allowed him to lose too much blood. She looked into his eyes, usually a grey so light as to look empty, and saw that they were now violet, pupils constricted to tiny pinpricks. His face – usually so calm and still – had morphed into harsh angles and bold lines, his brow furrowed in wrath.

His body felt like unyielding steel beneath her as he pushed his legs upward, knocking her off of him. She caught control of the momentum and used it to quickly stand, facing him. 

Though she was fighting the same body, the same muscles, the same weapon, the contrast between Jeritza and the Death Knight was unmistakable. He did not rush or lunge at her. With the slow and considered movements of a predator stalking his prey, he paced just outside the range of her weapon. The exertion and physical pain that Jeritza had been so obviously feeling mere moments ago had dissipated as suddenly and completely as his persona had. 

She observed her new opponent, evaluating his style as she cast her newly fledged memory back in attempt to recall her strategy for fighting The Death Knight. The air above her rapidly became thick and heavy. Her nostrils flared at the distinct and sharp smell of a spark – her opponent would not indulge this appraisal. A bolt of lightning struck her body. She was paralyzed from the brief but extreme pain jolting her entire body, only barely managing to stay upright. She had forgotten that he used dark magic.

The Death Knight pounced. He struck out with his scythe, driving the blunt end of his blade into the center of her armored chest. Winded, she tried to recover the force of his blow as she reeled backward, flinging her sword blade in an upwards arc towards his own chest. He evaded the maneuver with graceful ease. She took another step back in desperation and struck again, this time not at his body but at his weapon. She felt a triumphant thrill at the sound of the rending metal. Though the squeal of the metal as it warped beneath the stress of her sword was deafening, it did not quite drown out the Death Knight as he roared with fury. 

Exhausted, she lifted her sword for her defining victory strike, then lost consciousness as the metal shaft of his weapon collided with her skull. 

~

Though she wasn’t certain, it appeared she had been knocked out for no longer than a few seconds. When she recovered her bearings, she was lying on her back, staring up at the starlit sky. The Death Knight had sat on the waist-height stone wall at the edge of the arena, perching over her. One hand held his broken scythe to her neck while the other supported his jaw as he surveyed her, looking almost bored. She suspected the Death Knight had a sense of humor. True, it was the sort of humor one would find in a cat trying to play with a mouse in its final death throes, but it still seemed oddly endearing.

“How does it feel?” she managed to choke out from beneath the pressure of the halberd. The sharp edge had been broken off, rendering it blunt, but the heft of the weapon was still immense against her vulnerable neck. 

“Dull.” It was evident from his tone that this was the most grievous of insults, to be dull whilst being vanquished. 

“Are you going to kill me?” She managed to choke out, though she already felt sure of the answer. 

“I am deliberating.” 

“…Right.” 

They sat in silence for some time; she shifted uncomfortably. There was less air to breathe than her body generally found acceptable. Her head felt like it was being split open with each beat of her heart.

“I would have nothing to look forward to.” Finally, he eased the pressure he was exerting on her neck, just slightly. 

She gasped, throat aching at the sudden rush of her forceful inhale. She could almost see a hint of Jeritza flickering across the Death Knight’s expression, though she supposed that could be an artifact of her still-spotty vision. 

She didn’t know how she sensed it, but somehow, she was certain that the Death Knight was about to withdraw. Perhaps it was the repeated and frustrating experiences of witnessing the Death Knight appear without explanation, wreak havoc, and unerringly select the most dramatic moment to stage an exit off the battlefield. Yes, she thought, he definitely had a sense of humor – it was just that he needed to be the only one who was laughing. 

“Can you stay? I have questions.”

The Death Knight lifted the scythe, inspecting the damaged blade with a scowl. She took that for something approaching assent. “Why did you surface tonight?”

“I protect the weakling who resides within this body. I do what he is too weak-willed to achieve himself, I break what he is too fragile to destroy himself.” He spoke with impatience, evidently finding conversation irksome – it was the only trait he had exhibited so far that was reminiscent of Jeritza. 

“I figured that much. How does that involve me?”

“I have already made this clear many times before now,” he growled. “You are my sole equal in battle. It has always been so. And of late, you have been intent on making us miserable. My thirst to destroy you is thus twofold.” 

“I don’t understand. Were you angry that I spared him?”

The Death Knight snarled, baring his teeth in contempt. “I expected you to spare him. You are as foolish and weak-willed as he. Nevertheless, you exploit his frailties with impunity. You exile him from your presence, only to push your sentiments onto his shoulders like a burden to be carried. I do not abide such disrespect.” 

She didn’t know what to follow that up with. On reflection, she supposed it was an unwise decision to stalk Jeritza and lie in wait for Felix to leave so she could duel with him. It would be laughable if she didn’t feel so damn empty. 

Watching the Death Knight for any warning signs, she stood and held her hands up, palms facing him as she prepared a healing spell. His eyes tracked every movement, but he didn’t object. Though it wasn’t necessary, she let her palms touch his chest as she breathed the incantation and looked into those inscrutable violet eyes. 

Feeling slightly uneasy under the weight of his unblinking stare, she looked down, watching his skin stitch itself together beneath her fingertips. She couldn’t tell if the energy passing between them was part of the spell or if she was imagining the moment of connection.

Looking into his eyes once more, she watched in fascination as he transitioned again, far more gradually this time. She felt the tension in his chest ebb away as he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. His eyes shifted from violet to blue, though his face was just as indecipherable. The stare that stretched between them could have lasted a minute or hours – she couldn’t say. She tried to put everything she felt into her gaze - the feelings she didn’t know how to articulate even to herself. 

But he seemed to hear her unspoken words. Of course he did; he always had. He tucked her hair behind her ear and tilted her chin up with his thumb, his eyes lingering on her lips. 

He stood to get even closer to her, his form towering over her. She gave an involuntary flinch and he recoiled as though she had slapped him.

“Sorry.” They both spoke the word at the same time, not looking at one another. 

They gathered their weapons and began walking towards the massive double door, their steps heavy and slow. He looked down and ran a long finger over the gash in his tunic, exploring the freshly knitted scar. “What he said… pay him no mind. I have no such expectations of you.” 

He opened the door for her, his face cloaked in shadow. “You were watching.” She remembered what he’d told her about occasionally being a bystander of the Death Knight. 

“Yes.” 

Once they were out of the arena, he stopped. She halted, too, before realizing why. He was waiting for her to start walking, still respecting her desire to be left alone.

She had to tilt her head up to look at him. “The Death Knight wasn’t wrong. I have been foolish and weak-willed.” 

“I see no weakness of will, or foolishness.” 

She shook her head. “Those things I said a few weeks ago, in the cemetery… they were borne of anger, not truth. I’m not used to… it. Her.” 

“I know,” he said in a low rumble, his face still shadowed. 

“And you… you were being so kind, so gentle…” she swallowed and looked away. 

“Should I not have been?” 

“No, it’s just…” She took a shaky breath and shrugged. “Anyway. I’m sorry.” She made an abrupt turn and began walking toward her dormitory. 

She had walked nearly fifty paces and was just about to ascend the creaky steps leading to her quarters when she heard swift footsteps behind her. She whirled around, trying and failing to appear calm when she saw it was only Jeritza.

He waited for her to look at him before speaking. “You’re not weak.” His voice was at its lowest, filled with an emotion she could not identify. “But you really are a fool if you think me capable of pitying you.” 

She inclined her head, breaking the uncomfortable gaze. Jeritza didn’t press the issue. “Thank you for that duel. It was…exquisite.” Something in his deep voice made her shiver, and she tried to convince herself it was due merely to the cold. 

They contemplated each other for another moment, before Jeritza turned and headed to his quarters. Her gaze followed his progress until his form melted into the shadows completely.


End file.
